Cooks 

AND  NEW  EDITIONS, 

BY   THE 

AUTHOR    OF    "RUTLEDGE." 

1.— RUTLEDGE. 
2.-THE  SUTHERLANDS. 
3.-LOUIE'S  LAST  TERM. 
4.— FRANK  WARRIXGTON. 
5.— ST.  PHILIP'S. 
6.— ROUNDIIEARTS. 
7.— RICHARD  VAXDERMARCK. 
8.— A  PERFECT  ADOXIS. 
9.— MISSY—  (New). 


'  The  Stories  by  the  author  of  '  Rutledge '  are  told  with 

real  dramatic  power,  and  a  genuine  dramatic 

pathos,  which  combine  to  make  them 

universally  read  with  thorough 

satisfaction  and  plea- 


All  issued  uniform  with  this  volume.  Price  $1.50  each, 
and  Bent  free  by  mail,  on  receipt  of  price, 

BY 

G.   W.    CARLETON  &  CO.,  Publishers, 
New  York. 


MISSY. 


BY 

THE  AUTHOR  OF  "  RUTLEDGE  ;" 

"THE  SUTHERLANDS  ;"  "LOUIE'S  LAST  TERM  AT  ST.  MARY'S;" 

"FRANK  WARRINGTON;"  "RICHARD  VANDERMARCK  ;" 

"ST.  PHILIP'S  ;"  "A  PERFECT  ADONIS  ;" 

ETC.,  ETC.,  ETC. 


NEW     YORK  : 

Copyright,  1880,  by 

G.    IV.     Carleton    &    Co.,    Publishers. 

LONDON  :    S.    LOW,    SON    &    CO. 
MDCCCLXXX, 


SAMUEL  STODDEK,  TROW 

STEREOTYPER,  PRINTING  AND  BOOK-BINDING  Co., 

90  ANN  STREET,  N.  T.  N.  Y. 


CONTENTS. 


CHATTER  PAGE 

I.     Yellowcoats 9 

H.     St.  John 26 

in.     The  First  Sermon 45 

IV.     The  People  next  Door 49 

V.     Gabby  and  Jay 66 

VI.     A  Passing  Soul 74 

VH.     Misrule 94 

VIII.     A  Tea-Table  Truce . .   109 

IX.     The  Sweets  of  Victory 118 

X.     Per  Aspera  ad  Astra 156 

XI.     My  Duty  to  my  Neighbor 175 

XII.     Fire  and  Sword 190 

XIII.  Mine  Host 211 

XIV.  Yellowcoats  Calls  to  Inquire 227 

XV.     A  Misogynist  240 

[vii] 


2034508 


viii  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTZB  PAGE 

XVI.     Alphonsine 262 

XVII.     Enter  Miss  Varian 293 

XVIII.     At  the  Beach  Gate 301 

XIX.     Five  Candles 305 

XX.     The  Honeyed  Cousins 320 

"X"XT.     Mrs.  Hazard  Sinatter 332 

XXII.     A  Garden  Party 344 

XXHL     P.  P.  C 351 

XXTV.     Shut  and  Barred 363 

XXV.     Amice,  ascende  superius 866 

XXVI.     The  Brook  in  the  Way 379 

XXVII.     Sanctuary 383 

XXVIII.     Vespers 387 

Surrender..  .  397 


MISSY. 


CHAPTER  I. 

YELLOWCOATS. 

FELT  sure  the  train  would  be  late,"  said 
Missy,  sitting  clown  on  the  ottoman  be 
side  the  fire.  "It  is  so  disagreeable  to 
have  to  wait  for  what  you  dread." 
"But  I  think  you  have  begun  to  be  impatient  too 
soon,"  said  her  mother,  glancing  up.  "  That  clock  is 
several  minutes  fast,  and  Peters  always  drives  slower 
after  dusk.  Besides,  you  know  he  has  the  heavy  car 
riage.  I  think  it  would  be  foolish  to  begin  to  look  for 
them  for  twenty  minutes  yet." 

"  I  believe  you  are  right,"  said  the  daughter,  with  a 
sigh.  "  I  wish  it  were  over." 

"  That  is  natural,  but  we  can't  hurry  it.  We  shall 
have  twenty  minutes  of  quiet.  Come  and  sit  down, 
I  have  hardly  seen  you  to-day." 

For  the  truth  was,  Missy  had  been  very  busy  all 
day,  getting  ready  for  a  most  unwelcome  guest.     The 
pale  invalid  mother,  to  whom  the  guest  was  as  unwel- 
1*  [9] 


10  YELLOWCOAT8. 

come,  had   been  obliged  to  lie  on  her   sofa,  without 
the  solace  of  occupation. 

"  I  hope  she  will  like  it,"  said  Missy,  irrelevantly, 
getting  up  and  pushing  her  ottoman  over  to  her  moth 
er's  sofa,  then,  before  sitting  down,  going  to  the  table 
and  putting  a  leaf  of  geranium  in  a  different  attitude, 
then  stepping  back  and  looking  at  it.  An  India  bowl 
was  filled  with  scarlet  geranium,  and  the  light  of  a 
low  lamp  fell  upon  it  and  made  a  beautiful  patch  of 
color. 

"I  might  as  well  light  the  candles,"  she  said,  "and 
then  I  will  sit  down  quietly  and  wait."  She  took  a 
lighter,  and  stooping  to  the  fire,  set  it  ablaze,  and  went 
to  some  candles  on  the  low  book  shelves  and  lighted 
them.  "I  begrudge  my  pretty  candles,"  she  said, 
turning  her  head  to  look  at  the  effect. 

"  Why  do  you  light  them  then?"  said  her  mother, 
with  a  faint  sigh.  "  Come  and  sit  down." 

"In  a  moment,"  answered  Missy.  "I  wonder  if 
the  hall  is  light  enough."  She  had  looked  at  the  hall 
lamps  half  a  dozen  times,  but  in  fact  she  was  too  rest 
less  to  sit  down.  She  pulled  the  bell  impatiently,  and 
a  tidy  maid  in  spotless  cap  and  apron  came.  She  had 
perceived  an  imperfection  in  the  adjustment  of  a  rug, 
and  like  a  wise  housekeeper,  she  did  not  readjust  it 
herself.  Then  she  scanned  the  maid's  costume,  all 
with  the  eyes  of  the  unwelcome  guest. 

"  I  thought  that  you  understood  me  that  I  did  not 
want  those  aprons  worn  again.  Put  on  one  of  the  new 
set  that  I  gave  you." 

Mrs.  Varian  sighed;  she  could  never  at  any  period 
of  life  have  dared  to  do  the  like,  but  Missy  was  a  little 
dragon,  and  kept  the  servants  in  good  order,  aprons 


YELLOWCOATS.  11 

and  all.  The  servant  retired  to  correct  her  costume, 
and  Missy  began  to  look  about  for  something  else  to 
correct.  But  the  room  was  all  in  perfect  order, 
glowing  with  warmth  and  color,  delicious  with  the 
scent  of  flowers,  there  was  nothing  for  her  to  do.  She 
walked  up  and  down  before  the  fire,  with  the  air  of  a 
person  who  objects  to  sitting  down  and  having  a  quiet 
talk,  at  least  so  her  mother  thought. 

Missy  was  small ;  her  figure  was  perfect  in  its  pro 
portions  ;  her  hands  and  feet  quite  worth  noticing  for 
their  beauty.  She  was  not  plump,  rather  slight  than 
plump,  and  yet  well  rounded.  Her  head  was  well  set 
on  her  shoulders,  and  she  moved  it  deliberately,  not 
rapidly,  and  while  all  her  movements  showed  energy, 
she  was  not  bustling.  She  was  so  petite  she  was  not 
severe  :  that  was  all  that  saved  her.  Her  face  was  not 
pretty,  her  complexion  was  colorless,  her  eyes  very 
light,  her  nose  retrousse.  Her  hair  was  soft  and  fine 
and  waving,  and  of  a  pretty  color,  though  not  light 
enough  to  be  flaxen,  and  not  bright  enough  to  be 
golden.  It  had  the  fortunate  attribute  of  looking  pic 
turesque  and  pleasant,  whether  arranged  or  disarranged. 
Missy  had  her  own  way  of  dressing  herself,  of  course. 
Such  an  energetic  young  woman  could  not  be  indiffer 
ent  to  a  subject  of  such  moment.  She  dressed  in  the 
best  and  latest  fashion,  with  her  own  modification  as 
to  color  and  style.  Her  dresses  were  almost  always 
gray,  or  white,  or  black,  and  as  little  trimmed  as  pos 
sible,  and  she  never  wore  ornaments.  Whether  this 
were  matter  of  principle  or  taste,  she  had  not  yet  an 
nounced.  Certainly  if  the  former,  virtue  was  its  own 
reward  ;  for  no  ornaments  could  have  brought  color 
to  her  face,  or  added  any  grace  to  its  irregular  outline, 


12  YELLOWGOAT8. 

and  her  arras  and  hands  would  have  been  spoiled  by 
rings  and  bracelets:  every  link  would  have  hid  a  beauty. 
To-night  she  wore  a  soft  gray  silk,  with  crepe  lisse 
ruffles  at  the  throat  and  elbows,  and  grey  silk  stock 
ings  and  pretty  low  shoes  with  high  heels.  Putting 
one  hand  on  the  mantel  above  her,  she  stretched  out 
her  foot  to  the  blaze,  and  resting  her  toe  on  the  and 
iron,  looked  down  at  it  attentively,  though  probably 
absently. 

"I  hope  she  will  like  it,"  she  repeated. 

"  What,  your  gray  stocking  or  your  new  shoe  ? 
They  are  both  lovely,"  said  Mrs.  Varian,  trying  to  be 

gay- 

"  No,"  said  Missy,  indignantly,  withdrawing  the 
pretty  foot.  "No — but  it — all — the  house — the  place. 
Oh,  mamma,"  and  she  went  across  to  the  sofa  and  threw 
herself  in  a  low  chair  by  it,  "it  is  a  trial,  isn't  it  ?  " 

"  Yes,  my  child,"  said  Mrs.  Varian,  with  a  gentle 
caress  of  the  hand  put  out  to  her.  "But  if  you  do 
not  want  to  alienate  your  brother,  do  not  let  him  guess 
it."  Missy  gave  an  impatient  movement. 

"  Must  I  try  to  enter  into  his  fool's  paradise  ?  I 
can't  be  sympathetic,  I'm  afraid,  even  to  retain  my 
present  modest  place  in  his  affections." 

"  But  be  reasonable,  Missy.  You  knew  he  would 
sometime  marry." 

"  Sometime,  yes,  mamma.  But  I  cannot  think 
of  such  a  boy  as  going  to  be  married.  It  really  is  not 
decorous." 

"O  my  dear  Missy.  Think  again.  St.  John  is 
nearly  twenty.  It  only  seems  absurd  to  us  my  dear, 
because — because — " 

"Because    we   are   so   old,    mamma.     I   know    it. 


YELLOWCOATS.  13 

Yes;  don't  mind  speaking  of  it.  I  know  it  very  well. 
I  am — twenty  seven."  And  Missy  looked  into  the  fire 
with  a  sort  of  dreamy  wonder;  but  her  voice  showed 
the  fact  had  no  sting  for  her.  Her  life  had  been  such 
that  she  did  not  mind  it  that  she  was  no  longer  young. 
She  had  never  been  like  other  girls,  nor  had  their  am 
bitions.  She  had  known  she  was  not  pretty  ;  she  had 
not  expected  to  marry.  Her  life  had  been  very  full  of 
occupation  and  of  duty,  and  of  things  that  gave  her 
pleasure.  She  also  had  had  an  important  position, 
owing  to  her  mother's  invalid  condition.  She  was  iady 
of  the  house,  she  was  an  important  person;  a  good 
deal  of  money  passed  through  her  hands,  a  good  many 
persons  looked  up  to  her.  As  for  her  heart,  it  was  not 
hungry.  She  had  a  passionate  love  for  her  mother, 
who,  since  the  death  of  her  stepfather,  had  depended 
much  upon  her;  and  towards  her  young  stepbrother, 
now  on  this  October  night,  bringing  home  an  unwel- 

o  o       o 

come  fiancee,  she  had  felt  a  sort  of  tigerish  mother 
love.  There  were  seven  years  between  them.  She 
had  always  feU  she  owned  him — and  though  bitterly 
jealous  of  the  fond  and  blind  devotion  of  her  mother 
to  him  (as  she  saw  it),  she  feit  as  if  her  life  were  In 
separable  from  his.  How  could  he  live  and  love  and 
have  an  existence  in  what  she  had  no  part  ?  But  it  was 
even  so.  The  boy  had  outgrown  her,  and  had  no 
longer  any  need  of  her.  She  had,  indeed,  need  of  all 
her  strength  and  courage  to-night,  and  the  mother  saw 
it,  putting  aside  her  own  needs,  which  were  not  likely 
to  be  less.  For  this  boy,  St.  John,  and  this  daughter 
were  all  she  had  left  her  of  a  past  not  always  very 
bright,  even  to  remember.  But  with  patient  sweet 
ness  she  sought  to  comfort  Missy,  smarting  with  the 


14  YELLOWCOATS. 

first  knowledge  that  she  was  not  necessary  to  some  one 
whom  she  loved. 

"  You  know  we  should  have  been  prepared  for  it." 
she  said.  "It  really  is  not  strange— twenty  is  not 
young." 

"I  suppose  not.  But  that  is  the  very  least  of  it. 
Mamma,  you  know  this  is  throwing  himself  away. 
You  know  this  is  a  bitter  disappointment  to  you.  You 
know  she  is  the  last  person  you  would  have  chosen  for 
him.  You  know  you  feel  as  I  do,  now  confess  it." 
Missy  had  a  way  of  speaking  vehemently,  and  her 
words  tripped  over  each  other  in  this  speech. 

"  Well,"  said  Mrs.  Varian,  with  calm  motherly  jus 
tice,  upholding  the  cause  of  the  absent  offender,  while 
she  soothed  the  wrath  of  the  present  offended,  "I  will 
confess,  I  am  sorry.  I  am  even  disappointed  in  St. 
John — but  that  may  be  my  fault,  and  not  his  failure. 
Perhaps  I  was  unreasonable  to  expect  more  of  him 
than  of  others." 

"  More  of  him  ?  Why  pray,  do  theological  students, 
as  a  rule,  engage  themselves  to  actresses  before  they 
are  half  through  their  studies  ?  " 

•  "  My  dear  Missy,  I  must  beg  of  you — this  is  un 
warrantable.  You  have  no  right  to  call  her  an  actress. 
Not  the  smallest  right." 

"Excuse .me,  mamma,  I  think  I  have  a  right.  A 
person  who  gives  readings,  a  person  whose  one  ambi 
tion  is  to  be  before  the  public,  who  is  only  detained 
from  the  stage  by  want  of  ability  to  be  successful 
on  it,  who  is  an  adventuress,  neither  more  nor  less,  who 
has  neither  social  position  nor  private  principle,  who 
has  beauty  and  who  means  to  use  it — may  be  called  an 


TELLOWOOATS.  15 

actress,  without  any  injustice  to  herself,  but  only  to 
the  class  to  which  she  does  no  credit." 

The  words  tripped  over  each  other  vehemently  now. 

"  You  are  very  wrong,  very  unwise  to  speak  and 
feel  so,  Missy.  I  must  beg  you  to  control  yourself, 
even  in  speaking  to  me.  It  simply  is  not  right." 

"  You  do  not  like  the  truth,  mamma,  you  do  not 
like  the  English  language.  I  have  spoken  the  truth,  I 
have  used  plain  language.  What  have  I  said  wrong? 
I  cannot  make  tilings  according  to  your  wishes  by 
being  silent.  I  can  only  keep  them  out  of  your  sight. 
Is  it  not  true  that  she  has  given  readings  ?  Not  in 
absolute  public,  but  as  near  it  as  she  could  get.  Do 
we  not  know  that  she  has  made  more  than  one  effort 
to  get  on  the  stage  ?  Are  not  she  and  her  mother 
poor,  and  living  on  their  wits?  Is  she  not  beautiful, 
and  is  not  that  all  we  know  to  her  advantage  ?  I  think 
I  have  spoken  the  truth  after  all,  if  you  will  please  re 
view  it." 

"  Very  bitter  truth,  and  not  much  mixture  of  love 
in  it.  And  I  think,  considering  that  we  have  not  seen 
her  yet,  we  might  suspend  judgment  a  little,  and  hope 
the  best  of  her." 

"Perhaps  share  in  St.  John's  infatuation.  Oh!" 
and  Missy  laughed  scornfully,  while  her  mother's  face 
quivered  with  pain  as  she  turned  it  away. 

"  I  do  not  think  there  is  much  danger  of  your  seeing 
her  with  St.  John's  eyes,  but  I  do  think  there  is  danger 
of  you  driving  him  from  you,  and  losing  all  influence 
over  him." 

"  I  do  not  want  any  influence  over  him,"  said  Missy 
hotly.  "  I  never  will  stand  between  him  and  her.  I 
have  given  him  up  to  her;  he  has  made  his  choice. 


16  7ELLOWCOATS. 

Mamma,  mamma,  why  did  we  get  talking  this  way  ? 
And  they  may  be  here  any  minute.  I  made  up  my 
mind  not  to  speak  another  word  to  you  about  it,  and 
here  I  have  got  myself  worked  up,  and  my  cheeks 
burn  so." 

She  pressed  the  back  of  her  hand  against  her  cheek, 
and  getting  up  walked  two  or  three  times  across  the 
room. 

"  You  will  be  worn  out  before  they  come,"  she  said 
with  late  compunction,  noticing  the  tremor  of  her 
mother's  hand,  "  and  all  the  excitement  after,  and 
what  a  dreadful  night  you'll  have.  I  suppose  you  will 
not  sleep  at  all.  Dear,  dear,  I  am  so  sorry.  And  here 
comes  Aunt  Harriet.  I  had  forgotten  she  asked  me  to 
call  her  when  you  were  ready  to  come  down.  I  sup 
pose  she  will  scold,  and  make  everything  wretched," 
and  Missy  moved  across  to  open  the  parlor  door,  as  if 
she  thought  life  a  very  trying  complication  of  worries 
and  worse.  To  her  relief,  however,  Miss  Varian's 
rather  shrill  voice  had  more  question  than  reproach 
in  it  as  she  entered  the  room,  led  by  a  servant. 

"  Do  tell  me  if  it  is  not  time  for  the  train  ?  "  she 
said.  "  I  have  been  listening  for  the  whistle  for  the 
last  ten  minutes.  Goneril  has  let  my  clock  run  down, 
and  as  it  is  the  only  one  in  the  house  that  can  be  de 
pended  on,  we  are  in  a  bad  way." 

"  That  is  a  favorite  fiction  of  yours,  I  know,"  said 
Missy,  arranging  a  seat  for  her,  into  which  Goneril 
backed  her.  "  But  as  my  watch  has  only  varied  two 
minutes  since  last  July,  I  feel  you  may  be  reassured 
about  the  time.  I  can't  pretend  to  hear  a  whistle  four 
miles  off,  but  I  do  think  I  can  be  trusted  to  tell  what 
o'clock  it  is — within  two  minutes." 


YELLOWCOATS.  17 

"  My  footstool,  Goneril,"  said  Miss  Varian  sharply, 
"and  you've  dropped  my  handkerchief." 

Goneril,  a  good-looking  woman  of  about  forty,  a 
superior  American  servant  who  resented  her  position 
always,  and  went  as  far  as  she  dared  to  go  in  endanger 
ing  it,  stooped  and  picked  up  the  handkerchief  and 
shook  it  out  with  suppressed  vehemence,  and  thrust  it 
into  her  mistress'  hand.  "Is  that  all?"  she  asked, 
with  a  sort  of  sniff,  going  towards  the  door. 

"  Yes,  all,"  said  Miss  Varian,  in  a  tone  that  spoke 
volumes.  Goneril  indulged  in  another  sniff,  and  went. 

"That  insufferable  woman,"  muttered  her  employer, 
below  her  breath. 

Missy  smiled  calmly,  but  said  nothing.  It  always 
calmed  her  to  see  her  step-aunt  in  a  temper  with 
Goneril  :  it  gave  her  a  feeling  of  superiority.  She 
never  would  have  endured  the  woman  for  a  day,  but 
she  was  quite  willing  her  elder  should,  if  she  chose. 
The  poor  lady's  blindness  would  have  giren  every  one 
a  feeling  of  tenderness,  if  she  had  not  been  too  sharp 
and  petulant  to  permit  any  one  to  feel  tender  long. 
The  position  of  her  attendant  was  not  one  to  be 
envied.  Goneril  was  an  American  farmer's  daughter, 
who  had  made  a  bad  marriage  (and  the  man  who  mar 
ried  her  had  not  made  altogether  a  good  one).  She 
had  had  high  ambitions,  as  became  an  American 
farmer's  daughter,  and  she  had  come  down  to  living 
out  at  service,  and  what  more  cruel  statement  could 
be  made  ?  No  worse  fate  could  have  overtaken  her 
she  was  sure,  and  she  made  no  secret  of  her  estimate 
of  domestic  service  for  American  farmer's  daughters. 
She  quarrelled  incessantly  with  the  servants  of  hum 
bler  nationality  in  the  house,  who  did  not  mind  it 


18  YELLOW  CO  ATS. 

much,  and  who  laughed  a  little  at  her  proud  parentage. 
They  did  not  see  the  difference  themselves.  She  was 
industrious,  and  capable,  and  vigorous,  and  was  indis 
pensable  to  Miss  Varian,  out  of  whom  she  wrung  ever- 
increasing  wages.  Her  father,  the  American  farmer, 
had  done  handsomely  by  her  in  the  matter  of  a  name  ; 
he  had  called  her  Regan  Goneril.  She  had  grown  up 
in  the  sanctity  of  home  as  Regan,  but  now  that  she 
was  cast  out  into  the  battle  of  life,  she  preferred  to  be 
called  Goneril.  She  also  hoped  to  be  shielded  by  this 
thin  disguise  from  the  pursuit  of  the  discarded  hus 
band.  The  belief  in  the  Varian  kitchen  was,  that 
there  was  no  danger  of  any  such  pursuit :  in  fact,  that 
the  husband  would  go  very  fast  in  the  opposite 
direction.  But  she  liked  to  talk  about  it,  and  about 
her  goodness  in  putting  up  with  Miss  Varian's  temper  ; 
she  placed  her  service  rather  in  the  light  of  missionary 
work.  If  she  did  not  feel  it  to  be  her  duty  to  stay 
with  the  poor  blind  woman,  she  said,  no  money  would 
induce  her  to  remain.  (It  took  more  and  more  money 
every  year,  however,  to  stiffen  and  hold  up  her  sense 
of  duty.) 

Missy  took  the  brawls  between  Miss  Varian  and 
her  maid,  very  calmly.  "  It  gives  an  interest  to  her 
life,"  she  said  from  a  height.  On  this  evening,  occu 
pied  as  she  was  by  her  own  matters,  she  heard  the 
story  of  her  aunt's  wrongs  more  indifferently  than 
ever.  And  even  Miss  Varian  soon  forgot  that  thero 
was  anything  more  absorbing  than  the  waited-for 
arrival. 

"It  may  be  nine  o'clock  before  they  get  here,"  she 
said  ;  "that  shows  the  impropriety  of  letting  a  girl  go 
off  on  journeys  with  a  lover.  Such  things  weren't 


YELLOWCOATS.  19 

done  in  my  time.  I  shouldn't  have  thought  of  doing 
such  a  thing." 

"  You  don't  know  ;  you  might  have  thought  of  it, 
if  you  had  ever  been  engaged,"  said  Missy,  with 
malice. 

"Well,  my  dear,  we  have  neither  of  us  been 
tempted,"  retorted  her  aunt,  urbanely.  "  Let  us  be 
charitable.  I  have  no  doubt  we  should,  both  of  us, 
have  been  able  to  take  care  of  ourselves;  but  it  maybe 
different  with  your  sister  elect.  These  very  handsome 
women,  you  know,  are  not  always  wise." 

"  That  is  true,"  said  Missy,  tapping  her  foot  impa 
tiently  as  she  stood  before  the  fire.  "  Mamma,  you 
don't  think  you'd  like  a  cup  of  tea  ?  You  may  have 
to  wait  a  good  while." 

"  No,  thank  you,"  said  Mrs.  Varian  meekty. 

She  always  wore  a  pained  expression  when  her 
sister-in-law  was  present;  but  as  the  sister-in-law  could 
not  see  it,  it  did  no  harm.  She  always  dreaded  the 
next  word.  They  had  always  been  uncongenial  ;  but 
it  is  one  thing  to  have  an  uncongenial  sister-in-law  that 
you  can  get  away  from,  or  go  to  see  only  when  you 
are  braced  up  to  the  business,  and  another  to  have  her 
under  your  own  roof,  a  prisoner,  by  reason  of  her 
misfortune  and  your  sense  of  duty — able  to  prey  upon 
you  whether  you  are  well  or  ill  ;  as  familiar  and  every 
day  as  your  dressing-gown  and  slippers  ;  having  no 
respect  for  your  engagements  or  your  indigestions. 
When  this  blindness  threw  Harriet  Varian  upon  her 
hands,  she  felt  as  if  her  home  were  invaded, 
desecrated,  spoiled,  but  she  had  not  a  moment's 
hesitation  as  to  her  duty.  A  frivolous  youth  and 
a  worldly,  pleasure-seeking  maturity,  had  ill  pre- 


20  YELLOW  COATS. 

pared  the  poor  woman  for  her  dreary  doom.  She 
had  fitted  herself  to  it  with  a  bitter  philosophy  ; 
for  do  we  not  all  fit  ourselves  to  our  lot,  in  one  way  or 
another.  u Ifhomme  est  en  delire  s'ilose  murmurer" 
but  it  is  to  be  hoped  Heaven  is  not  always  critical  in 
the  matter  of  resignation.  Harriet  Yarian  had  sub 
mitted,  but  she  was  in  the  primer  of  Christian  princi 
ple,  as  it  were  ;  attaining  with  difficulty  in  middle  age 
the  lesson  that  would  have  been  easy  to  her,  if  she 
had  begun  in  childhood.  "When  you  have  spent  thirty- 
four  years  in  having  your  own  way,  and  consulting 
your  own  pleasure  quite  exclusively,  it  comes  a  trifle 
hard  to  do  exactly  as  you  do  not  wish  to  do,  and  to 
find  that  pleasure  is  a  term  unknown  in  your  vocabu 
lary  :  when  you  are  old  that  another  should  gird  you 
and  lead  you  whither  you  would  not. 

But  the  healthy  and  Christian  surroundings  of  the 
home  to  which  she  came  were  not  without  their  influ 
ence.  Mrs.  Varian's  sweet  endurance  of  her  life-long 
suffering,  St.  John's  healthy  goodness,  and  Missy's 
vigorous  duty-doing,  helped  her,  against  her  will.  St. 
John  was  her  great  object  of  interest  in  life.  All  her 
money  was  to  go  to  him,  and  she  actually  felt  com 
pensated  for  her  dull  and  restricted  existence,  some 
times,  when  she  reflected  that  it  swelled,  by  so  many 
thousand  a  year,  the  fortune  that  would  be  his.  She 
had  not  lost  her  interest  in  the  world,  since  she  had 
him  to  connect  her  with  it,  and  to  give  her  an  excuse 
for  the  indulgence  of  ambition.  Of  course  she  had 
been  bitterly  set  against  all  the  system  upon  which 
he  had  been  educated,  and  would  have  thwarted  it  if 
she  had  had  the  power.  His  entering  the  church  had 
been  a  great  trial  to  her,  but  she  openly  said  it  was 


YELLOW  CO  ATS.  21 

liis  mother's  plan,  and  no  wish  of  his,  and  before  he 
was  ordained  he  would  be  old  enough  to  see  the  folly 
of  it,  and  to  get  clear  of  it.  Then  came  his  engage 
ment,  and  at  this  she  was  wroth  indeed,  but  as  it  fur 
nished  her  with  liberal  weapons  against  his  disappointed 
mother,  she  found  her  own  comfort  in  it.  Now  she 
hoped  Dorla  would  see  the  folly  of  her  course  ;  now 
she  could  understand  what  other  people  had  known  all 
along  :  simply  that  she  was  keeping  him  in  a  false  and 
unhealthy  state  of  religious  feeling,  that  she  had 
forced  upon  him  duties  and  aspirations  all  her  own  and 
none  of  his  ;  that  there  had  come  a  reaction,  that 
there  was  a  flat  failure  when  he  came  to  see  even  a 
corner  of  the  world  from  which  she  had  debarred  him. 
Here  he  was,  carried  away  by  his  infatuation  for  a  wo 
man  whom  he  would  have  been  too  wise  to  choose  if 
his  mother  had  not  tried  to  make  a  monk  of  him,  and 
to  keep  him  as  guileless  and  ignorant  as  a  girl.  Here 
he  was  bound  to  a  woman  who  would  ruin  his  career, 
spoil  his  life  for  him,  spend  his  money,  disgrace  his 
name  ;  and  it  was  "all  the  work  of  his  mother."  These 
were  some  of  the  amenities  of  the  family  life  at  Yel- 
lowcoats.  These  were  the  certain  truths  that  were 
spoken  of  and  to  Mrs.  Varian  by  her  candid  and  un 
prejudiced  sister-in-law. 

And  there  was  too  much  fact  in  them  to  be  borne 
as  Harriet's  criticisms  were  generally  borne  by  Mrs. 
Varian.  Perhaps  it  was  all  true,  she  said  to  herself  in 
the  morning  watches,  as  the  stars  grew  pale  ;  but  of 
all  the  failures  of  her  life  this  was  the  bitterest.  How 
many  hopes,  and  how  high,  were  centered  in  her  boy  ! 
She  had  dreamed  for  him,  she  had  schemed  for  him, 
she  had  seen  her  life  retrieved  in  him.  A  career,  in 


22  TELLOWCOATS. 

which  earthly  ambition  had  no  part,  she  had  planned 
for  him,  and  into  its  beginning  she  had  led  him.  He 
had  been  so  easily  guided,  he  was  so  good,  he  loved 
her  so  ;  had  it  all  been  a  mistake  ?  couid  it  be  all  de 
lusion  ?  If  he  had  been  headstrong,  a  willful,  rebel 
lious  boy,  it  never  could  have  been.  But  to  have 
bound  him  with  his  own  lovingness,  to  have  slain  him 
with  his  own  sweetness,  this  was  a  cruel  thought. 
Why  had  no  voice  called  to  her  from  heaven  to  warn 
her  of  it ;  why  was  she  left  to  think  she  was  doing  the 
very  best  for  him,  when  she  was  truly  acting  as  the 
enemy  who  sought  his  life  ?  She  had  led  him  up  such 
a  steep  and  giddy  path,  that  the  first  glance  downward 
of  his  young,  untutored  eyes,  sent  him  reeling  to  the 
bottom.  Why  had  God  suffered  this?  God,  who 
loved  him  and  her.  She  had  thought  that  she  had, 
long  ago,  accepted  God's  will  in  all  and  for  all,  and 
owned  it  sweetest  and  best.  But  this  opened  her  eyes 
sadly  to  her  self-deception.  She  could  not  abandon 
herself  to  a  will  that  seemed  to  have  put  a  sword  into 
her  hand,  by  which  she  had  wounded  her  child  unwit 
tingly,  thinking  that  she  did  God  service.  She  could 
have  borne  mistake  and  misconception  for  herself,  but 
that  her  boy  should  bear  the  penalty  seemed,  even  to 
her  humbled  will,  a  bitter  punishment.  The  future 
was  all  too  plain,  even  without  her  sister-in-law's  inter 
pretation.  Yes,  St.  John's  career  was  spoiled.  If  he 
entered  the  church  at  all,  having  made  such  a  connec 
tion,  it  would  be  but  to  lead  a  half-way,  feeble  life,  and 
to  bring  discredit  on  his  faith.  If  he  gave  it  up,  there 
was  nothing  before  him  but  a  life  of  ease  with  a  large 
fortune  and  a  natural  tendency  to  indolence.  It  was 
not  in  him  to  think  of  another  profession  and  to  make 


YELLOWCOATS.  23 

an  interest  and  an  aim  to  himself  other  than  the  one 
that  he  had  had  from  childhood  :  his  mother  knew  him 
too  well  to  believe  that  possible.  Humanly  speaking, 
St.  John  Varian  had  lost  his  best  chance  of  distinction 
when  he  gave  his  fate  into  the  keeping  of  this  beauti 
ful  adventuress.  He  might  have  been  what  he  was 
brought  up  to  be  ;  he  would  never  be  anything  else. 

"  Think  of  it,"  said  Miss  Varian,  tapping  her  fan 
sharply  on  the  arm  of  her  chair,  as  she  talked,  "think 
of  it.  I  suppose  that  woman  isn't  coming  with  her 
daughter,  because  she  hasn't  clothes  to  come  in.  I  sup 
pose  every  cent  has  been  expended  on  the  girl,  and 
the  summer's  campaign  has  run  them  deep  in  debt. 
No  doubt  that  poor  boy  will  have  to  pay  for  the  pow 
der  and  balls  that  shot  him,  by  and  bye.  Not  post- 
obit,  but  post-matrimonium.  Ha,  ha  !  I  don't  know 
which  is  worse.  To  think  of  his  being  such  a  fool. 
Why,  at  his  age  his  father  was  a  man  of  the  world. 
He  could  have  been  trusted  not  to  be  caught  by  the 
first  woman  that  angled  for  him.  But  then,  mamma 
was  always  resolute  with  him  and  made  him  understand 
something  of  life,  and  rely  upon  himself.  He  was 
never  coddled.  I  don't  think  I  ever  remember  Felix 
when  he  couldn't  take  care  of  himself." 

Missy  had  not  loved  her  stepfather,  and  this  com 
parison  enraged  her  (though  not  by  its  novelty). 
Naturally,  she  could  not  look  for  sympathy  to  her 
mother,  who  had  been  devoted  to  her  husband.  So 
Bhe  had  to  bite  her  lips  and  keep  time  with  her  foot 
upon  the  tiles,  to  Mrs.  Varian's  fan  upon  the  armchair. 

"  There  !  "  exclaimed  the  latter  at  this  exasperating 
juncture.  "  There,  I  hear  the  whistle."  No  one  else 
heard  it  of  course,  but  no  one  ventured  to  dispute 


24  YELLO  WCOA  TS. 

the  correctness  of  the  blind  woman's  wonderful  hear 
ing. 

"  Half  an  hour  at  least  to  wait,"  exclaimed  Missy, 
almost  crying  as  she  flung  herself  into  a  chair.  "  And 
Peters  will  drive  his  slowest,  and  the  tea  will  all  be 
ruined.  What  can  have  kept  the  train  so  late."  Mrs. 
Varian  pressed  her  hand  before  her  eyes.  It  seemed 
to  her  that  another  half  hour  of  this  fret  and  sus 
pense  would  be  worse  than  a  calamity.  But  she  had 
gone  further  in  her  matter  than  the  vehement  souls 
who  bemoaned  themselves  beside  her — she  could  be 
silent. 

"  I  shall  go  and  walk  up  and  down  on  the  piazza," 
said  Missy,  starting  up,  "  I  long  for  the  fresh  air." 

Mrs.  Varian  looked  appealing  towards  her,  but  she 
did  not  see  it ;  and  throwing  a  cloak  over  her  shoulders, 
she  went  out  on  the  piazza.  It  was  a  cool,  clear  Octo 
ber  night ;  there  was  no  moon,  but  there  were  hosts  of 
stars,  which  she  could  dimly  see  through  the  great 
trees  not  yet  bare  of  foliage,  though  the  lawn  was 
strewn  with  leaves.  The  air  cooled  and  rested  her  ; 
but  her  thoughts  were  still  a  trifle  bloodthirsty. 

"  Poor  mamma,"  she  said  to  herself,  glancing 
through  the  window,  as  she  walked  quickly  to  and  fro, 
"  poor  mamma.  If  she  could  only  come  out  and  walk, 
and  feel  the  fresh  air  on  her  face,  and  get  away  from 
Aunt  Harriet.  I  believe  I  was  contemptible  to  come 
away  and  leave  her.  I  can  see  Aunt  Harriet  is  saying 
something  dreadful,  from  mamma's  expression.  I  wish 
I  could  kill  her."  Missy  allowed  herself  to  think  in 
highly  colored  language.  She  had  so  often  said  to 
herself  that  she  would  like  to  strangle  Aunt  Harriet,  to 
drown  her  with  her  own  hands,  to  hang  her,  that  she 


YELLOWGOATS.  25 

had  omitted  to  perceive  that  it  wasn't  altogether  right. 
She  stood  at  the  window  looking  in,  holding  her  cloak 
together  with  one  hand,  and  with  the  other  holding  up 
her  dress  from  the  floor  of  the  piazza,  which  was  wet 
with  dew.  So  she  had  no  hand  left  to  clench  as  she 
looked  at  her  ;  but  she  set  her  teeth  together  vindic 
tively  and  knit  her  brow. 

"  If  ever  there  was  a  wicked  woman  !"  she  exclaimed 
below  her  breath.  She  certainly  wasn't  a  handsome 
woman,  as  Missy  looked  at  her,  sitting  in  rather  a  stiff 
chair  by  the  fire-place,  with  her  feet  on  a  stool.  She 
was  heavily  built,  and  her  clothes  were  put  on  awk 
wardly,  as  if  they  did  not  belong  to  her,  or  had  not 
been  put  on  by  her.  She  was  nodding  her  head  in  a 
peremptory  way  as  she  said  the  thing  that  Missy  was 
sure  was  distressing  her  mother.  Then  Missy  watched 
while  her  mother,  with  a  look  of  more  open  suffering 
than  was  usual  with  her,  leaned  her  head  back  upon 
the  pillows,  and  pressed  her  hands  silently  together. 
"How  pretty  she  is,  poor  mamma,"  she  thought. 
"  Every  one  admires  her,  though  she  is  so  faded  and 
suffering.  Beauty  is  a  great  gift,"  and  then  she  began 
slowly  to  walk  up  and  down,  gazing  in  at  the  windows 
as  she  passed  them,  and  looking  at  the  picture  framed 
by  the  hangings  within.  The  light  of  the  fire  and  the 
light  of  the  lamp  both  fell  on  the  reclining  figure  of 
her  mother.  Her  face  had  resumed  its  ordinary  quiet, 
and  her  graceful  white  hands  were  lying  unclasped  on 
the  rich  shawl  spread  over  her.  Her  face  was  still 
beautiful  in  outline  ;  her  hair  was  brown  and  soft  ; 
there  was  something  pathetic  in  her  eyes.  She  was 
graceful,  refined  and  elegant,  the  sort  of  woman  that  men 
always  serve  with  alacrity  and  a  shade  of  chivalry,  even 
2 


26  ST.'    JOHN. 

when  she  is  faded  and  no  longer  young.  She  was  de 
pendent  and  not  particularly  practical  ;  but  there 
were  always  plenty  to  take  care  of  her,  and  to  do  the 
part  of  life  for  which  she  was  unfitted.  If  a  woman 
can't  take  care  of  herself,  there  are  general';'  enough 
ready  to  do  it  for  her. 


CHAPTER    II. 
ST.    JQHN. 

HERE  is  the  carriage  !  "  exclaimed  Missy, 
as  she  caught  the  sound  of  wheels  in  the 
distance.  She  darted  into  the  house,  her 
heart  beating  with  violence.  "Mamma, 
I  believe  they  are  coming,"  she  said  with  forced  calm 
ness,  as  she  went  into  the  parlor,  shaking  out  the  fringe 
of  the  shawl  across  her  mother's  lap,  and  straightening 
the  foot-stool.  "Aunt  Harriet,  do  let  me  move  your 
chair  a  little  back.  Goneril's  one  idea  seems  to  be  to 
put  it  always  as  much  in  the  way  as  possible." 

"Don't  scold,"  said  Miss  Varian,  tartly.  "Your 
new  sister  may  take  a  prejudice  against  you." 

Missy  disdained  to  answer,  but  occupied  herself 
with  putting  on  the  fire  some  choice  pine  knots  which 
she  had  been  reserving  for  this  moment.  They  blazed 
up  with  effusion  ;  the  room  was  beautiful.  The  car 
riage  wheels  drew  nearer  ;  they  were  b.efore  the  house. 
Missy  threw  open  the  parlor  door  and  advanced  into 
the  hall,  with  a  very  firm  step,  but  with  a  very  weak 


ST.     JOHN.  27 

heart.  She  knew  her  hands  were  cold  and  that  they 
trembled.  How  could  she  keep  this  from  the  knowl 
edge  of  her  guest ;  it  was  all  very  well  to  walk  for 
ward  under  the  ci-ystal  lamps,  as  if  she  were  a  queen. 
But  queens  arrange  to  keep  their  hands  from  shaking, 
and  to  command  their  voices. 

The  maid  had  already  gone  out  to  the  steps  to 
bring  in  the  shawls  and  bags.  Everything  seemed  to 
swim  before  Missy  as  she  stood  in  the  hall  door.  The 
light  went  out  in  a  flood  across  the  piazza,  but  there 
seemed  to  be  darkness  beyond,  about  the  carriage. 
There  was  no  murmur  of  voices.  Missy  in  bewilder 
ment  saw  her  brother,  and  then  the  maid  coming  up 
the  steps  after  him  and  carrying  nothing.  In  her 
agitation  she  hardly  looked  at  him,  as,  at  the  door,  he 
stooped  down  and  kissed  her,  passing  on.  But  the 
touch  of  his  hand  was  light  and  cold. 

"  You  have  no  wraps,  or  bags,  or  anything,"  she 
said  confusedly,  following  him. 

"No,"  he  said,  in  a  forced  voice,  throwing  his  hat 
on  a  table  as  he  passed  it,  and  going  towards  the  stairs. 
"  Is  mamma  in  her  room  ?  " 

"  No,  in  the  parlor  waiting  for  you." 

A  contraction  passed  across  his  face  as  he  turned 
toward  the  open  parlor  door,  from  which  such  a  light 
came.  He  went  in,  however,  quickly,  and  hurried  to 
his  mother's  sofa.  She  had  half  raised  herself  from 
it,  and  with  an  agitated  face  looked  up  at  him. 

"You  are— alone— St.  John  ?" 

"  I  am  alone,  mamma,"  he  said  in  a  strained,  un 
natural  voice,  stooping  to  embrace  her. 

Miss  Varian  had  caught  the  scent  of  trouble  and 
was  standing  up  beside  her  chair. 


28  ST.     JOHN. 

"Aunt  Harriet,"  lie  said,  as  if  be  bad  forgotten  her, 
going  over  to  her  and  kissing  her. 

"You  are  late,"  she  said,  as  be  turned  away. 

"Ami?"  be  said,  looking  at  bis  watch,  but  very 
much  as  if  he  did  not  see  it.  "Yes,  I  suppose  so. 
There  was  an  accident  or  something  on  the  road.  The 
days  are  growing  short.  I  am  afraid  I  have  kept  you 
waiting." 

Then  he  walked  restlessly  up  and  down  the  room, 
and  took  up  and  laid  down  a  book  upon  the  table,  and 
spoke  to  a  dog  that  came  whisking  about  bis  feet,  but 
in  a  way  that  showed  that  the  book  and  the  dog  had 
not  either  entered  into  his  mind. 

"  I  will  go  and  see  about  tea,"  said  Missy,  faintly, 
glad  to  get  away.  St.  John's  face  frightened  her.  He 
looked  ten  years  older.  He  was  pallid.  There  was  a 
most  affecting  look  of  suffering  about  his  mouth.  His 

o  o 

eyes  were  strange  to  her  ;  they  were  absolutely  unlike 
her  brother's  eyes.  What  could  it  all  mean  ?  What 
bad  befallen  him  ?  She  felt  as  if  they  were  all  in  a 
dream.  She  hurried  into  the  dining-room,  where  the 
waitress  was  whispering  with  gesticulation  to  the  cook 
and  laundress,  whose  faces  appeared  in  the  further 
door  full  of  curiosity.  Her  presence  put  them  to 
flight*;  the  waitress,  much  bumbled,  bestirred  herself 
to  obey  Missy's  orders  and  remove  the  unneeded  plate 
and  chair,  and  to  make  the  table  look  as  if  it  were  not 
intended  for  more  than  would  sit  down  to  it.  How 
large  it  looked  ;  Missy  was  so  sorry  that  extra  leaf  bad 
been  put  in.  And  all  the  best  china,  and  the  silver 
that  was  not  used  every  day.  What  a  glare  and  glit 
ter  they  made  ;  she  hated  the  sight  of  them  ;  she  knew 
they  would  give  St.  John  a  stab.  She  would  have 


ST.     JOHN.  29 

taken  some  off  the  table,  but  that  she  felt  the  demure 
waitress  would  make  .a  note  of  it.  She  had  patiently 
to  see  her  lighting  the  candles  in  the  sconces.  Poor 
St.  John's  eyes  would  ache  at  so  much  light.  But 
there  was  no  help  for  it  now. 

"  Put  tea  upon  the  table  at  once,"  said  Missy, 
sharply.  There  was  no  relief  for  her  but  scolding  the 
innocent  maid,  and  no  one  could  have  the  heart  to 
deny  her  that,  if  it  would  do  her  any  good. 

In  a  few  moments  the  tea  was  served,  and  Missy 
went  to  announce  it  herself.  Things  were  not  altered 
in  the  parlor.  St.  John  and  his  aunt  were  trying  to 
talk  in  a  way  that  would  not  convict  the  one  of  a 
broken  heart,  and  the  other  of  a  consuming  curiosity. 
Mrs.  Varian,  very  pale,  was  leaning  her  head  back  on 
the  pillows,  and  not  speaking  or  looking  at  them. 

"Mamma,  tea  is  ready,"  said  Missy,  coming  in. 
"  St.  John,  take  Aunt  Harriet.  Mamma  will  come 
with  me." 

"  I  think  you  may  send  me  in  a  cup  of  tea,"  said 
Mrs.  Varian.  "  I  am  almost  too  tired  to  go  into  the 
dining-room." 

"Very  well  ;  that  will  be  best.  I  will  send  Anne 
to  wait  upon  you." 

So  the  party  of  three  went  into  the  brilliantly- 
lighted  dining-room,  and  sat  down  at  the  table  that 
had  been  laid  for  five.  Perhaps  St.  John  didn't  see 
anything  but  the  light  ;  that  hurt  his  eyes,  for  he  put 
his  hand  up  once  or  twice  to  shield  them.  It  was  a 
ghastly  feast.  Aunt  Harriet  talked  fast  and  much. 
St.  John  could  not  follow  her  enough  to  answer  her 
with  any  show  of  sense.  Missy  blundered  about  the 


30  ST.     JOHN. 

sugar  in  the  two  cups  of  tea  she  made,  and  tried  to 
speak  in  her  ordinary  tone,  but  in  vain.  St.  John  sent 
oysters  twice  to  his  aunt,  and  not  at  all  to  Missy,  and 
when  the  servant  brought  him  her  plate  he  said,  what  ? 
and  put  it  down  before  himself,  and  went  on  pouring 
cream  into  his  tea,  though  he  had  done  it  twice  before. 

"  No  matter,"  said  Missy  sharply,  to  the  girl,  who 
could  not  make  him  understand,  and  who  looked 
inclined  to  titter.  She  did  not  want  the  oysters,  but 
she  longed  to  see  the  poor  fellow  eat  something  him 
self,  and  she  watched  him  furtively  from  behind  the 
urn.  He  took  everything  upon  his  plate  that  was 
brought  to  him,  but  the  physical  effort  of  eating 
seemed  impossible  to  him.  He  could  not  even  drink 
the  tea,  which  Missy  had  quietly  renewed  since  the 
deluge  of  cream. 

The  excitement  had  even  affected  Miss  Varian's 
appetite  ;  she  found  fault  with  the  rolls.  This  was  a 
comfort  to  Missy,  and  restored  to  her  the  feeling  that 
the  world  was  on  its  time-honored  route,  notwithstand 
ing  her  brother's  troubles.  At  last  it  was  impossible 
to  watch  it  any  longer.  He  was  sitting  unevenly  at 
the  head  of  the  table,  with  his  profile  almost  turned  to 
her — as  if  he  were  ready  to  go  away,  ah,  too  ready  ! — 
if  he  could  get  away.  His  untouched  plate  was 
pushed  back. 

"  St.  John,"  said  Missy,  "  do  you  want  to  take  this 
cup  of  tea  in  to  mamma,  or  shall  Rosa  go  with  it  ?" 

"  I  will  take  it,"  he  said,  with  an  eager  movement, 
getting  up.  The  tears  rushed  into  Missy's  eyes  as  she 
watched  him  going  out  of  the  door  with  the  cup  of 
tea  in  his  unsteady  hand.  Then  she  heard  the  parlor 


ST.     JOHN.  31 

door  shut,  as  Anne  came  out  and  left  the  mother  and 
son  together.  Missy  could  fancy  the  eager,  tender 
words,  the  outburst  of  wretchedness.  Her  own  heart 
ached  unutterably.  "As  one  whom  his  mother  com- 
forteth."  Oh,  that  he  might  be  comforted,  even  though 
she  was  shut  out,  and  could  not  help  him,  and  her  help 
was  not  thought  of.  It  was  her  first  approach  to  great 
trouble  since  she  had  been  old  enough  to  feel  it  intel 
ligibly.  How  happy  we  have  been,  she  thought,  as 
people  always  think  ;  how  smooth  and  sweet  our  life 
has  flowed  ;  and  now  it  is  turned  all  out  of  its  course, 
and  will  never  be  the  same  again.  It  was  a  life-and- 
death  matter,  even  though  no  one  wore  a  shroud,  and 
no  sod  was  broken  ;  the  smooth,  happy  boy's  face  was 
gone.  She  would  never  look  on  it  again,  and  she 
had  loved  it  so.  She  thought  of  him  as  he  had  been, 
only  two  months  ago,  when  he  went  away,  easy,  frank, 
happy,  good.  Everybody  loved  him.  It  was  the 
fashion  to  be  fond  of  him,  and  it  did  not  seem  to  hurt 
him.  Missy  thought  of  his  beauty,  his  fine  proportions, 
his  look  of  perfect  health.  "  Like  as  a  moth  fretting 
a  garment,"  this  trouble  had  already  begun.  His 
harassed  features,  his  sallow  tint — why,  it  was  like  a 
dream.  Poor  St.  John  !  the  only  thing  his  sister  had 
had  to  reproach  him  with  had  been  his  boyishness,  and 
that  was  over  and  done.  He  had  not  the  regularity 
of  feature  that  had  made  his  father  remarkable  for 
beauty,  but  he  had  the  same  warm  coloring,  the  deep 
blue  eye,  the  fair  yellow  hair.  He  was  larger,  too, 
than  his  father — a  broad-shouldered,  six-foot  fellow, 
who  had  been  grown  on  the  sunny  side  of  the  wall. 
About  his  brain  power  there  was  a  difference  of 


32  ST.     JOHN. 

opinion,  as  there  will  be  about  undeveloped  resources. 
His  mother's  judgment  did  not  count  ;  his  aunt 
thought  him  unusually  clever  for  his  age.  Missy 
looked  upon  him  as  doubtfulljf'average.  His  masters 
loved  him,  and  thought  there  might  be  a  good  deal  in 
him,  if  it  could  be  waked  up  (but  it  hadn't  been)  ;  his 
comrades  thought  him  a  good  fellow,  but  were  sure 
he  wouldn't  set  the  sea  on  fire.  The  men  about  the 
village,  oyster  men  and  stable  boys,  sailors  of  sloops 
and  tillers  of  soil,  were  all  ready,  to  a  man,  to  bet 
upon  him,  whatever  he  might  undertake.  And  here 
he  was,  not  twenty  yet,  a  boy  whom  fortune  had 
seemed  to  agree  should  be  left  to  ripen  to  utmost  slow 
perfection,  suddenly  shaken  with  a  blast  of  ice  and 
fire,  and  called  upon  to  show  cause  why  more  time 
should  be  given  him  to  develop  the  powers  within  him, 
and  to  meet  the  inherent  cruelty  of  life.  It  was  pre 
cipitate  and  cruel  ;  and  the  sister's  heart  cried  out 
against  it. 

What  was  the  mother's  heart  crying  out  ?  Missy 
yearned  to  know.  But  here  was,  no  one  knew  how 
much  time  to  pass  before  she  could  see  her  mother. 
Her  duty  now  was  to  keep  Aunt  Harriet  away  from 
them,  and  to  hold  her  in  check.  And  this  was  not 
easy.  Freed  from  the  restraint  of  St.  John's  presence, 
Miss  Varian's  anxiety  showed  itself  in  irritability. 
She  found  fault  with  everything,  and  soon  brought 
her  tea  to  an  end.  Then  she  called  for  Goneril  to 
take  her  to  the  parlor.  While  Rosa  went  for  Goneril, 
Missy  said,  firmly  : 

"  Wait  a  few  minutes,  Aunt  Harriet.  I  am  sure 
St.  John  wants  to  see  mamma  alone  a  little  while." 


ST.     JOHN.  33 

Then  Miss  Varian  gave  way  to  a  very  bad  fit  of 
temper,  only  stopped  by  the  re-entrance  of  the  servant. 
It  was  gall  to  her  to  think  that  his  mother  could  only 
comfort  him,  and  that  she  had  DO  place.  But  she 
respected  the  decencies  of  life  enough  not  to  betray 
herself  before  the  servants.  So  while  Missy  busied 
herself  in  putting  away  the  cake,  and  locking  up  the 
tea  caddy,  she  sat  silent,  listening  eagerly  for  any 
sound  or  movement  in  the  parlor. 

"  If  I  had  the  evening  paper,  I  would  read  it  to 
you,"  said  Missy,  having  come  to  the  end  of  her  in 
vented  business.  "  Rosa,  go  and  look  in  the  hall  for 
it." 

"It  is  on  the  parlor  table,  miss." 

"  Well,  no  matter  then  ;  tell  the  cook  to  come  here. 
I  want  to  read  her  a  receipt  for  soup  to-morrow." 

The  receipt  book  was  the  only  bit  of  literature  in 
the  dining-room,  so  the  cook  came,  and  Missy  read 
her  the  receipt  for  the  new  soup,  and  then  another 
receipt  that  had  fallen  into  desuetude,  and  might  be 
revived  with  benefit  to  the  menage.  And  then  she 
gave  her  orders  for  breakfast,  and  charged  the  cook 
with  a  message  for  the  clam  man  and  the  scallop  man, 
and  the  man  who  brought  fish.  For  at  Yellowcoats 
every  man  brings  the  captive  of  his  own  bow  and 
spear  (or  drag  and  net),  and  the  man  who  wooes 
oysters  never  vends  fish  ;  and  the  man  who  digs  clams, 
digs  clams  and  never  potatoes  ;  and  scallops  are  a  dis 
tinct  calling. 

All  this  time  Missy  was  listening,  with  intent  ear, 
for  some  movement  in  the  parlor,  Miss  Varian  listen 
ing  no  less  intently.  The  tea-table  was  cleared — the 
2* 


34  ST.     JOHN. 

cook  could  be  detained  no  longer  with  any  show  of 
reason  ;  the  waitress  waited  to  know  if  there  was  any 
thing  she  could  bring  Miss  Rotherrael.  It  was  so 
very  unusual  for  any  one  to  sit  in  the  dining-room 
after  tea  ;  there  were  no  books  in  it,  nor  any  easy 
chairs,  nor  anything  to  do.  The  waitress,  being  a 
creature  of  habit,  was  quite  disturbed  to  see  them 
stay,  but  she  knew  very  well  what  it  meant. 

At  last !  There  was  a  movement  across  the  hall — 
the  parlor  door  opened,  and  they  heard  St.  John  and 
his  mother  come  out  and  go  slowly  up  the  stairs. 
When  they  were  on  the  first  landing,  Miss  Varian 
said,  sharply, 

"  Well,  I  suppose  we  can  be  released  now." 
"Yes,  I  think  it  will  be  as  pleasant  in  the  parlor," 
said  Missy,  giving  her  arm  to  Miss  Varian,  and  going 
forward  with  a  firm  step.  She  installed  her  companion 
in  an  easy  chair,  seated  herself,  and  read  aloud  the 
evening  paper.  Politics,  fashions,  marriages,  and 
deaths,  what  a  senseless  jumble  they  made  in  her  mind. 
She  was  often  called  sharply  to  account  for  betraying 
the  jumble  in  her  tone,  for  Miss  Varian  had  recovered 
herself  enough  to  feel  an  interest  in  the  paper,  while 
she  felt  sure  she  should  have  no  tidings  of  St.  John's 
trouble  that  night.  It  was  easy  to  see  nothing  would 
be  told  her  till  it  was  officially  discussed,  with  Missy 
in  council,  and  till  it  was  decided  how  much  and  what 
she  was  to  heac.  So  she  resolved  to  revenge  herself 
by  keeping  Missy  out  of  it  as  long  as  she  could.  The 
paper,  to  the  last  personal,  had  to  be  read.  And  then 
she  found  it  necessary  to  have  two  or  three  notes 
written.  Goneril  was  no  scribe,  so  Missy  was  ahvays 


ST.     JOHN.  85 

expected  to  write  her  notes  for  her,  which  she  always 
did,  filled  with  a  proud  consciousness  of  being  pretty 
good  to  do  it,  for  somebody  who  wasn't  her  aunt,  and 
who  was  her  enemy.  Aunt  Harriet  had  always  a  good 
many  notes  to  write  ;  she  never  could  get  over  the 
habit  of  wanting  things  her  own  way,  and  to  have 
your  own  way,  even  about  the  covering  of  a  footstool, 
requires  sometimes  the  writing  of  a  good  many  little 
notes  ;  the  looking  up  of  a  good  many  addresses,  the 
putting  on  of  a  good  many  stamps,  the  sending  a  good 
many  times  to  the  post-office.  All  these  things  Missy 
generally  did  with  outward  precision  and  perfection. 
But  to-night  her  hand  shook,  her  mind  wandered,  she 
made  mighty  errors,  and  blotted  and  crossed  out  and 
misdirected  like  an  ordinary  mortal  in  a  state  of  agi 
tation.  It  was  not  lost  upon  Miss  Varian,  who  heard 
the  pen  scratching  through  a  dozen  words  at  a  time. 

"  Anything  but  an  erasure  in  writing  to  such  a 
person  as  Mrs.  Olor,  and  particularly  about  a  matter 
such  as  this  If  you  can't  put  your  mind  on  it  to-night, 
I'd  rather  you'd  leave  it  till  to-morrow." 

"  I  haven't  found  any  difficulty  in  putting  my  mind 
on  it,"  said  Missy.  "  If  you  could  give  me  a  lucid 
sentence,  I  think  I  could  write  it  out.  I  believe  I 
have  done  it  before."  So  she  tore  up  the  letter,  her 
cheeks  burning,  and  began  a  fresh  one. 

All  this  time  she  listened  for  the  sounds  overhead. 
Sometimes  it  would  be  silent,  of  course  they  could  not 
hear  the  sound  of  voices — sometimes  for  five  minutes 
together  there  would  be  the  sound  of  St.  John's  tread 
as  he  walked  backward  and  forward  the  length  of  the 
room.  Eleven  o'clock  came. 


36  ST.     JOHN. 

"lam  going  to  bed,"  said  Missy,  pushing  away 
the  writing  things.  "  I  will  finish  your  business 
in  the  morning.  Shall  I  ring  for  Goneril  ?  " 

While  Goneril  was  coming,  Missy  put  out  the 
lamp,  and  gathered  up  her  books.  When  she  had 
gone  up  and  shut  herself  into  her  room,  she  began  to 
cry.  The  two  hours'  strain  upon  her  nerves,  in  keep 
ing  up  before  Miss  Varian,  had  been  great;  then  the 
suspense  and  pity  for  St.  John  ;  and  not  least,  the 
feeling  that  she  was  forgotten  and  outside  of  all  he 
suffered,  and  her  mother  knew.  Mamma  could  have 
called  me,  even  if  St.  John  had  not  remembered,  she 
thought  bitterly.  By  and  bye  she  heard  her  mother's 
door  open  and  her  brother's  step  cross  the  hall,  and 
stealing  out  she  looked  after  him  down  the  stairs.  He 
walked  once  or  twice  up  and  down  the  lower  hall,  then 
taking  up  his  hat,  went  out,  and  she  heard  his  step  on 
the  gravel  walk  that  led  down  to  the  beach  gate. 
Then  she  felt  a  great  longing  to  go  into  her  mother's 
room,  and  hear  all.  But  an  obstinate  jealous  pride 
kept  her  back.  She  lingered  near  the  open  door  of 
her  room  till  Anne  the  maid  went  into  her  mother's 
room,  and  after  a  few  moments  came  out. 

"  Did  mamma  ask  for  me  ?  "  she  said,  as  the  woman 
passed  her  door. 

"  No,  miss.  She  told  me  she  did  not  want  any 
thing,  that  I  was  to  leave  the  light,  and  that  all  were 
to  go  to  bed." 

Then  Missy  shut  her  door,  and  dried  her  tears,  or 
rather  they  dried  away  before  the  hot  fire  of  her  hurt 
feelings.  St.  John's  trouble,  whatever  it  was,  began  to 
grow  less  to  her.  At  least  he  had  his  mother,  if  he 


ST.     JOHN.  37 

had  lost  his  love  ;  and  mother  to  her  had  always  been 
more  than  any  love.  And  then,  he  had  had  the  ful 
ness  of  life,  he  had  had  an  experience  ;  he  had  lived 
more  than  she  had,  though  he  was  but  twenty,  and  she 
was  twenty-seven.  She  was  angry,  humbled,  wounded. 
Poor  Missy  ;  and  then  she  hated  herself  for  it,  and 
knew  that  she  ought  to  be  crying  for  St.  John,  instead 
of  envying  him  his  mother's  heart.  It  is  detestable  to 
find  yourself  falling  below  the  occasion,  and  Missy 
knew  that  was  just  what  she  was  doing.  She  was 
thinking  about  herself  and  her  own  wounds  and  wants, 
and  she  should  have  been  tilled  with  the  sorrow  of  her 
brother.  Well,  so  she  would  have  been  if  he  had  asked 
her.  She  was  sure  she  would  have  given  him  her 
whole  heart,  if  he  had  wanted  it.  This  was  destined 
to  be  a  night  of  suspenses.  Missy  undressed  herself, 
and  put  on  a  wrapper,  and  said  her  very  tumultuous 
and  fragmentary  evening  prayers,  and  read  a  chapter 
in  one  or  two  good  books,  without  the  least  under 
standing,  and  then  put  her  light  behind  a  screen  in  the 
corner,  and  went  to  the  window,  and  began  to 
wonder  why  St.  John  did  not  come  back.  The  night 
was  clear  and  starlight,  but  there  was  no  moon,  and  it 
looked  dark  as  she  gazed  out.  She  could  see  a  light  or 
two  twinkling  out  on  the  bay,  at  the  mast  of  some 
sloop  or  yacht.  An  hour  passed.  She  walked  about 
her  room,  in  growing  uneasiness,  and  opened  her  door 
softly,  wondering  if  her  mother  shared  her  watch,  and 
with  what  feelings.  Another  half  hour,  and  it  truly 
seemed  to  her,  unused  to  such  excitements,  that  she 
could  bear  it  no  longei'.  Where  could  he  be,  what 
could  it  mean  ?  All  the  jealousy  was  over  before  this 


38  ST.     JOHN. 

time,  and  she  would  have  gone  quickly  enough  to 
her  mother,  but  that  the  silence  in  her  room,  made 
her  fear  to  disturb  her,  and  to  give  her  a  sleepless 
night.  At  last,  just  as  the  hands  of  her  little  watch 
reached  two,  she  heard  a  movement  of  the  latch  of 
the  beach  gate,  and  her  brother's  step  coming  up  the 
path.  She  flew  down  to  the  door  of  the  summer 
parlor  and  opened  it  for  him.  There  was  only  a  faint 
light  coming  from  the  hall.  He  did  not  speak,  and 
she  followed  him  across  the  parlor,  into  the  hall. 
"  Where  have  you  been  ?  "  she  said  humbly,  "  I  have 
been  so  worried." 

But  when  she  got  into  the  hall  under  the  light, 
she  uttered  a  little  scream,  "  St.  John  !  You  are  all 
wet,  look  at  your  feet." 

The  polished  floor  was  marked  with  every  step. 

"  It  is  nothing,"  he  said  hoarsely,  going  towards 
the  stairs. 

"  Is  mamma's  light  burning?'' 

"  You  are  not  going  to  mamma's  room,"  said  Missy, 
earnestly,  "at  this  hour  of  the  night?  You  might 
make  her  very  ill.  I  think  you  are  very  inconsid 
erate." 

There  came  into  his  eyes  for  a  moment  a  hungry, 
evil  look.  He  looked  at  Missy  as  if  he  could  have 
killed  her. 

"  Then  tell  her  why  I  didn't  come,"  he  said  in  an 
unnatural  voice,  taking  a  candle  from  her  hand,  and 
going  up  the  stairs,  shut  himself  into  his  own  room. 

Poor  Missy  was  frightened.  She  wished  she  had 
let  him  go  to  his  mother  ;  as  the  light  of  the  lamp 
fell  on  his  face,  it  was  dreadful.  His  clear  blue  eyes, 


ST.     JOHN.  39 

with  their  dark  lashes,  had  always  looked  at  her  with 
feelings  that  she  could  interpret.  She  had  seen  him 
angry— a  short-lived,  sudden  anger,  that  had  melted 
while  you  looked,  but  never  malicious  ;  but  this  was 
malice,  despair.  The  habitual  expression  of  his  eye 
was  soft,  happy,  bright ;  a  good  nature  looking  out. 
She  did  not  think  he  had  lost  his  mind;  she  only 
thought  he  might  be  losing  his  soul.  His  eyes  were 
bloodshot,  his  face  of  such  a  dreadful  color. 

"  This  is  trouble,"  she  said  to  herself,  as  with 
trembling  hands  she  put  out  the  light,  and  went  up 
the  dark  staircase.  At  her  mother's  door  she  paused 
and  listened,  and  a  voice  within  called  her.  How 
gladly  she  heard  it  !  She  went  in,  longing  to  throw 
herself  into  her  mother's  arms  and  cry  what  is  it  ? 
But  she  controlled  herself,  and  went  softly  to  the 
sofa  where  her  mother  lay,  still  undressed,  the  lamp 
burning  on  the  table  beside  her,  her  eyes  shining  with 
an  unusual  lustre. 

"  I  didn't  know  you  were  awake,"  said  Missy,  sit 
ting  down  on  an  ottoman  by  the  fire.  "  Your  room 
is  cold,"  and  she  pulled  together  the  embers,  and  put 
on  a  stick  or  two  of  wood,  her  teeth  chattering. 
She  knew  quite  well  it  was  wasn't  the  cold  that 
made  them  chatter. 

"  Where  is  St.  John  ?  "  said  her  mother. 

"  He  has  just  come  in,"  returned  Missy,  looking 
furtively  at  her — "  and  has  gone  to  bed." 

"  Why  didn't  he  come  in  to  me  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Varian, 
anxiously. 

"  Because  I  thought  that  it — it  was  so  late — you 
ought  not  to  be  kept  awake  so  long." 


40  ST.     JOHN. 

"  Did  you  tell  him  not  to  come  ?  " 

"  Well,  yes." 

Mrs.  Varian  sighed.  "  It  would  have  been  better 
not,"  she  said. 

Missy  turned  her  face  to  the  fire,  which  was  be 
ginning  to  blaze,  and  stretched  out  her  hands  to  it. 
"  Well,  mamma,"  she  said  a  little  querulously,  after 
several  moments  of  silence,  "I  suppose  3*011  don't 
think  that  I  care  anything  about  St.  John's  trouble. 
I  should  think  you  might  tell  me  without  being 
asked  to." 

"O  my  child  !  "  exclaimed  her  mother.  "Forgive 
me.  I  have  been  so  absorbed  in  him." 

"  O,  I  know  that,"  retorted  Missy,  crying  a  little. 
"That  isn't  what  I  want  to  know." 

"  It  won't  take  long  to  tell  you.  The  girl  to  whom 
he  was  engaged,  has  fled  from  him  and  from  her 
mother,  and  last  night  was  married  privately  to  a 
man  for  whom,  it  seems,  she  has  long  had  a  passion." 

"  Then  why  did  she  ever  engage  herself  to  St. 
John?"  cried  Missy,  turning  her  pale  and  excited 
face  towards  her  mother. 

"  I  suppose  it  was  the  mother's  work.  The  mother 
must  be  unscrupulous  and  daring.  No  doubt  she 
worked  hard  for  such  a  prize  as  St.  John,  and  she 
found  him  easy  prey,  poor  boy.  Easier  to  manage 
than  her  daughter,  whose  passions  are  strong,  and 
whose  will  is  undisciplined.  The  girl  could  not 
conquer  the  thought  of  the  old  lover,  though  she  had 
dissembled  cruelly.  I  think  she  is  but  little  to  be 
preferred  to  her  mother,  inasmuch  as  her  intention 
was  the  same  ;  she  meant  to  sacrifice  St.  John,  and 


ST.     JOHN.  41 

to  satisfy  her  ambition.  Only  at  the  last  moment, 
her  passion  conquered,  and  she  broke  faith  both  with 
her  mother  and  him.  O  Missy,  what  wicked,  wicked 
lives  !  Does  it  seem  possible  that  there  can  be  such 
women  living?" 

"  I  thank  them  from  the  bottom  of  my  heart," 
said  Missy,  from  between  her  set  teeth. 

"  Yes,"  said  her  mother  with  a  sigh.  "  It  is 
right  to  feel  that.  I  know.  But  oh,  my  boy  ;  it  is  so 
hard  to  see  him  suffer.  To  have  loved  so,  and  been 
so  duped.  And  he  cannot,  in  his  disgust  and  revulsion, 
conquer  his  great  love  for  her.  He  is  writhing  in  such 
pangs  of  jealousy.  Think,  last  night  this  time  he  was 
dreaming  happy  dreams  about  her,  as  foolish  and  as 
fond  as  boy  could  be.  To-night,  she  is  in  the  arms 
of  another — separated  from  him  forever — leaving  him 
with  mockery  and  coldness,  without  a  word  of 
penitence  or  supplication.  She  flung  him  off  as  if  she 
had  disdained  and  loathed  him." 

"How  did  it  come  out — how  did  he  hear  it  first?" 

"This  morning,  he  went  for  her  to  drive.  They 
were  to  have  had  a  very  happy  day.  St.  John,  you 
know,  is  so  nice  and  thoughtful  about  planning 
pleasures  and  expeditions.  I  think  he  must  have  had 
an  insight  into  their  characters,  though  he  was  so 
blinded.  First,  they  were  to  go  to  see  some  pictures, 
then  to  the  Park  for  an  hour  or  two,  then  to  Del- 
monico's  for  an  early  dinner  ;  then  to  do  some  shop 
ping  before  coming  to  the  cars.  The  shopping  meant 
letting  her  choose  all  sorts  of  expensive  things  to 
wear,  to  which  she  was  unaccustomed,  while  he  paid 
the  bills.  Poor  boy,  think  of  that  not  opening  his 


42  ST.     JOHN. 

eyes.  I  asked  if  she  never  remonstrated,  'Yes,  a  little 
perhaps,  at  first.'  Well,  they  were  to  have  had  this 
perfect  day  ;  and  St.  John  mounted  the  stairs  to  their 
apartment  without  a  misgiving. 

"  The  moment  the  door  was  opened  he  felt  what 
was  coming.  The  room  was  in  confusion  ;  the  mother, 
wild  and  dishevelled,  turned  from  him  with  a  shriek. 
It  took  but  a  moment,  but  it  was  a  horrible  moment, 
to  persuade  her  to  tell  him  the  truth. 

"  '  Yes,'  she  cried,  with  a  sudden  impulse — perhaps  it 
was  the  first  honest  word  she  had  ever  spoken  to  the 
poor  boy — '  Yes,  you  shall  know  everything.  You 
shall  know  all  that  I  know.  There  is  no  good  in  keep 
ing  things  back  now.  She  has  gone  ;  she  is  a  deceit 
ful,  bad  girl.  She  has  left  me  to  poverty  and  you  to 
misery.  She  has  gone  off  with  a  wicked  man,  a  man 
who  destroyed  her  sister,  and  left  her,  but  whom  she 
has  always  loved.  She  has  broken  her  promise  to  me 
— she  has  deceived  me,  she  has  ruined  me.  What  shall 
I  do  !  how  shall  I  pay  her  bills  !  I  shall  have  to  hide 
myself  ;  and  I  thought  I  had  got  through  with  being 
poor  !  She  promised  me,  she  promised  me  to  bear 
•with  you  and  to  carry  this  out.  Everything  hung 
upon  it,  every  one  was  waiting — the  landlord,  the  grocer 
even  knew  that  she  was  going  to  make  a  fine  match, 
and  they  were  waiting.  I  had  to  explain  it  all  to  them. 
You  can't  think  how  like  heaven  it  seemed  to  have  a 
prospect  of  easy  times.  I  have  had  a  hard  life,  a  hard 
life,  ever  since  I  can  remember.  How  I  have  worked  for 
that  girl,  and  for  her  sister  before  her — what  sacrifices 
I  have  made  !  You  can't  think,  a  man  can't  know.  I 
really  enjoy  telling  the  truth  ;  it's  such  a  long  time 


ST.     JOHN.  43 

since  I've  done  it.  Making  the  best  of  things — making 
out  that  things  were  one  way  with  ns  when  they  were 
another — telling  lies  to  every  body — almost  to  each 
other  !  Oh,  what  shall  I  do  without  her  !  I  don't  know 
where  to  go  or  which  way  to  turn  !  She  is  a  wicked 
girl  to  have  served  me  such  a  trick.  She  will  be  come 
up  with  yet.  She  will  hate  that  man — hate  him  worse 
than  she  hated  you.  Nobody  could  say  you  were  not 
sweet  and  nice  to  every  one,  even  if  you  were  too 
young.  And  he — he  is  an  evil,  deep,  bad  man.  He  will 
break  her  heart  for  her,  as  he  broke  her  sister's.  And 
he  hasn't  got  a  penny.  And  she,  oh  !  she  has  a  fury 
of  a  temper,  and  she  must  have  her  own  way  if  she  dies 
for  it.  Well,  she's  got  it,  and  I  almost  hope  she  will 
be  punished.  I'd  like  to  see  her  poor  as  poverty,  and 
come  begging  to  the  door.' 

"  And  so  on,  Missy,  in  her  wretched,  selfish  moan 
of  disappointed  greed,  while  the  poor  boy  stood  stunned 
and  almost  stupefied.  It  did  not  seem  to  him  at  all 
real  or  true  ;  he  felt  as  if  he  must  wake  up  from  it  ;  for 
the  girl  had  been  a  good  actress  ;  and  the  mother, 
though  he  had  always  felt  a  little  uncomfortable  with 
her,  had  simulated  the  manners  of  a  lady,  and  his  refined 
tastes  never  had  been  shocked  ;  at  least  never  with 
force  enough  to  break  the  spell  of  the  daughter's  in 
fluence.  Fancy  what  this  revelation  was  to  him  ;  the 
woman,  in  her  transport  of  anger,  and  in  her  despair  of 
further  help  from  him,  tearing  away  their  flimsy 
hypocrisies,  arid  revealing  their  disgusting  meanness. 
It  all  seemed  hideous  raving  to  St.  John,  till  she  thrust 
into  his  hand  the  letter  that  the  girl  had  left.  Then 
the  sight  of  the  handwriting  that  had  always  given  him 


44  ST.     JOHN. 

such  emotions,  and  the  cruel  words,  made  an  end  of 
his  dream,  and  he  was  quite  awake." 

"  What  did  she  write?"  asked  Missy. 

"That  he  has  not  told  me.  lie  cannot  seem  to 
bring  himself  to  speak  the  words.  But  I  gather  from 
him,  it  was  a  vehement  protestation  of  what  she  felt 
for  her  old  lover,  and  the  contempt  in  which  she  held 
the  poor  boy,  and  perhaps  some  rude  defiance  of  her 
mother.  St.  John,  I  think,  could  hardly  have  spoken 
many  words  during  the  interview.  He  emptied  his 
pockets,  poor  boy,  and  left  the  wretched  woman 
silent  with  amazement.  She  may  well  have  repented 
of  her  reckless  speech — how  much  she  might  have  got 
out  of  him,  if  she  had  still  played  the  hypocrite. 
He  came  down  the  stairs  which  half  an  hour  before 
he  had  mounted,  Aveak,  like  a  person  after  months  of 
illness.  When  he  got  into  the  carriage,  his  eyes  fell 
on  some  lovely  flowers  which  he  had  brought  for  her, 
and  the  sight  and  scent  of  them  seemed  to  make  clear 
the  horrible  reality.  I  think  he  really  cannot  tell  what 
he  did  with  the  rest  of  the  day.  lie  told  the  man  to 
drive  to  the  Park,  and  there  he  wandered  about,  no 
doubt,  for  hours.  I  am  sure  he  has  not  tasted  food  since 
morning.  It  must  result  in  a  terrible  illness.  How  did 
he  look,  Missy,  when  he  came  in  from  the  beach  ?  " 

Missy  evaded  ;  and  her  heart  smote  her  that  she 
had  not  brought  the  poor  boy  to  his  mother,  instead 
of  turning  him  away  from  the  only  chance  of 
comfort.  "Shall  I  go  and  see?"  she  said.  And 
going  softly  into  the*  hall,  she  stood  outside  the  door 
of  his  room  and  listened.  "  It  is  all  quiet,"  she  said, 
coming  back.  "  Perhaps  he  has  fallen  asleep.  lie 


THE    FIRST    SERMON.  45 

looked  utterly  worn  out  when  he  came  in."  Then  she 
crept  up  beside  her  mother,  and  pulling  a  shawl  about 
her,  they  sat  talking,  hand  in  hand,  till  the  stars  grew 
pale,  and  the  chilly  dawn  broke. 


CHAPTER  III. 
THE   FIRST   SERMON. 

T  was  Sunday  afternoon,' a  year  and  a  half 
after  this,  and  St.  John  had  just  been 
preaching  his  first  sermon.  Missy's  dream 
of  happiness  was  realized,  and  her  brother 
was  called  to  Yellowcoats  parish — called  before  he  was 
ordained  ;  and  for  three  months  the  parish  had  been 
waiting  patiently  for  that  event,  and  living  upon 
"supplies."  St.  John  had  not  wished  to  come  to 
Yellowcoats,  his  mother  had  not  wholly  desired  it, 
but  the  fire  and  foi'ce  of  Missy's  will  had  conquered, 
and  here  he  was. 

"  I  think  it'*  a  mistake."  St.  John  had  said.  "  Half 
the  congregation  will  think  I  ought  to  be  playing 
marbles  yet,  and  wearing  knickerbockers.  Besides,  it 
isn't  the  kind  of  work  I  want." 

Then  his  mother  had  admitted,  that  it  would  be  a 
great  happiness  to  have  him  with  her;  and  Missy  had 
presented  to  his  conscience,  in  many  forms,  that  place 
and  surroundings  were  indications  of  duty.  It  was 
not  for  nothing  that  he  had  been  born  and  brought  up 


46  THE    FIRST    SERMON. 

at  Yellowcoats  ;  that  there  he  had  family  influence, 
and  knowledge  of  the  people  with  whom  he  was  to 
deal.  Was  it  not  his  home  ?  Did  he  owe  any 
other  place  as  much  ?  And  was  it  nothing  that 
a  vacancy  had  occurred  just  as  he  was  ready  to 
come  ? 

"  All  the  same,  I  doubt  if  it  is  well,"  he  said,  and 
came  ;  for  he  was  young  and  not  self-willed,  and  the 
kind  of  work  he  wanted  had  not  come  before  him. 
He  consented  to  come  and  try.  "But  remember, 
Missy,  I  do  not  promise  you  to  stay." 

Upon  one  thing  he  was  firm,  he  would  not  live  at 
home.  The  rectory  was  in  tolerable  order,  and  there 
he  was  to  live,  with  one  servant.  He  never  would  be 
happy  unless  he  were  uncomfortable,  said  his  sister  ; 
nevertheless,  she  liked  him  better  for  it. 

St.  John  was  changed,  very  deeply  changed,  since 
that  October  night,  a  year  and  a  half  ago  ;  but  he  had 
come  to  be  again  sweet-natured  and  natural,  and  they 
loved  him  more  than  ever  at  home.  Pie  had  grown 
silent,  and  never  got  back  his  young  looks  again.  He 
had  thrown  himself  into  his  studies  with  great  earnest 
ness,  and  had  worked,  perhaps,  more  than  was  quite 
wise.  Lent  was  just  over,  and  his  ordination  ;  and  he 
was  naturally  a  little  wan  and  weary  from  it ;  but  after 
preaching  that  first  sermon,  there  was  a  flush  upon  his 
cheek.  The  bishop  had  been  there  in  the  morning, 
and  had  preached  ;  in  the  afternoon,  he  had  had  no 
one  with  him,  and  had  taken  all  the  duty.  He  was 
alone  with  his  people,  and  was  fairly  launched.  It 
had  been  well  known  that  he  was  going  to  preach,  and 
the  church  was  very  full.  Perhaps  speculation  about 


THE    FIRST    SERMON.  47 

the  knickerbockers  and  the  marbles  had  brought  some. 
Perhaps  affection  and  real  interest  in  their  young 
townsman  had  brought  others.  All  the  "  denomina 
tions  "  were  amply  represented,  and  all  the  young 
women  of  the  village  who  had  smart  spring  bonnets, 
wore  them,  and  came  with  their  young  men.  In  short, 
it  was  more  like  a  funeral  than  an  ordinary  afternoon 
service  ;  for  a  funei'al  in  Yellowcoats  was  an  improved 
occasion  always.  The  church  building  was  a  very 
poor  affair,  shabby  in  detail  as  well  as  ungainly  in 
plan,  but  it  was  well  situated,  in  the  midst  of  shade, 
with  an  old  graveyard  on  one  side,  and  the  road  that 
led  to  the  door  of  the  rectory,  fifty  feet  back,  on  the 
other,  and  beyond  some  green  grass  and  trees  there 
were  sheds  for  horses.  The  windows  were  of  clear 
diamond-shaped  glass,  so  that  when  the  rattling  old 
shades  were  rolled  up,  one  saw  lovely  glimpses  of  the 
bay,  and  some  green  fields,  and  nearer,  the  delicate 
young  green  of  the  locust  trees  that  stood  thick  in  the 
inclosure.  One  could  always  look  heaven-ward  and 
sea-ward  out  of  the  windows  of  Yellowcoats  church, 
and  that  was  the  only  advantage  it  presented  as  a 
building. 

Lent  had  come  late  that  year  ;  and  the  spring  had 
come  early.  The  air  was  soft  and  sweet,  the  verdure 
more  advanced  than  is  usual  for  the  last  of  April. 
The  earth  was  still  sodden  and  wet,  though  the  spring 
sun  was  shining  warmly  on  it.  The  crocuses  were 
peeping  up  about  the  stones  of  the  foundation,  and  in 
the  grass  the  Star  of  Bethlehem  and  the  periwinkle 
were  in  blossom.  The  locusts,  with  their  thin,  high-up 


48  THE    FIRST    SERMON. 

foliage,  were  just  a  faint  green,  their  rough  bark  rusty 
from  the  winter's  storms. 

It  is  rather  an  ordeal  to  hear  one's  brother  preach 
Lis  first  sermon,  particularly  if  he  is  a  younger  brother, 
and  one  has  more  solicitude  for  his  success,  than  confi 
dence  in  it.  Missy's  heart  beat  furiously  while  he  said 
the  prayers — she  very  much  wished  he  hadn't  come  to 
Yellowcoats.  His  voice  soothed  her ;  there  was  no 
indication  in  it  that  his  heart  was  beating  with  irregu 
larity.  But  then  would  dart  in  the  thought  of  the 
coming  sermon,  and  the  trepidation  would  return. 
There  was  one  thing  to  be  thankful  for,  and  that  was, 
that  mamma  was  not  there.  And  when  the  sermou 
came,  she  scarcely  heard  the  text  ;  it  was  several  min 
utes  before  she  heard  anything.  By  and  by  she  got 
steadied  by  something  in  his  voice  and  manner,  not 
probably  in  the  words.  And  after  that,  she  renounced 
solicitude  and  assumed  confidence.  Yes,  she  need  not 
be  afraid  for  St.  John.  Though  there  was  nothing 
wonderful  in  the  sermon.  The  congregation  had 
heard  many  a  better,  probably.  But  while  it  was 
simple,  it  was  not  trite.  It  was  thought  out,  and  defi 
nite,  and  well-expressed.  The  Rev.  Dr.  Platitude 
would  have  made  three  out  of  it,  and  thought  himself 
extravagant.  But  what  was  it  that  held  the  people  so 
silent,  that  made  them  follow  him  so  ?  For  Missy 
would  have  heard  a  leaf  turned  six  pews  off  ;  would 
have  felt  it  through  and  through  her  if  a  distant  neigh 
bor  had  even  buttoned  up  her  glove.  No  ;  uobody  was 
turning  pages,  or  buttoning  gloves,  or  thinking  of 
spring  bonnets.  St.  John  had  them  in  his  hand  ;  they 
were  his  while  he  chose  to  hold  them.  There  was  an 


TI1E    FIRST    SERMON.  49 

utter  simplicity  about  him  ;  an  absence  of  speculation 
about  himself.  Missy  looked  at  him  and  wondered  if 
it  were  indeed  her  brother.  There  was  a  deep  light  in 
his  eyes,  that  one  sometimes  sees  in  blue  eyes  ;  there 
was  a  faint  flush  on  his  cheek  ;  there  was  a  steady 
look  about  his  mouth.  It  began  to  dawn  on  Missy  that 
he  was  going  to  be  one  of  those  men  who  are  to 
preach  from  their  hearts  as  well  as  from  their  brains  ; 
who  are  to  bring  out  from  their  own  soul's  labor,  food 
for  the  hungry  souls  about  them.  She  began  to  fee! 
that  St.  John's  sermon  had  come  somehow  from  the 
weary  Lent  that  was  just  ended  ;  from  the  hard  pres 
sure  of  the  past  eighteen  months  ;  from  the  cruel 
wound  that  had  seemed  to  find  his  very  life.  But  what 
were  the  people  crying  about  ?  Heaven  knows.  For 
they  had  heard  many  sermons  before,  and  been  like 
the  pebbles  on  the  shore  for  hardness  and  rattling  in 
difference.  And  they  did  cry,  though  St.  John  did  not  ; 
but  his  eyes  were  deep  and  earnest. 

"  Mamma,"  exclaimed  Missy,  throwing  herself  down 
by  her  mother's  sofa,  and  hiding  her  face  on  her 
shoulder — "  it  was  like  Paradise — all  the  people  cried." 

"I  didn't  suppose  they  did  that  in  Paradise." 

"Oh,  you  know  what  I  mean.  It  was  like  Paradise 
to  me  to  see  them  cry.  At  any  rate,  you  needn't  have 
any  fear  about  St.  John." 

"  I  never  had  any  fear  of  him,  that  way,"  said  the 
mother,  quietly. 
3 


50  THE    PEOPLE    NEXT    DOOR. 

CHAPTER  IV. 
THE   PEOPLE   XEXT   DOOR. 


T  was  a  lovely  Juiy  afternoon,  and  at  five 
o'clock  Missy  had  taken  her  work  and  a 
book  down  to  the  beach-gate,  and  sat  there 
rather  idly  reading,  while  the  tide,  which 
was  only  a  few  feet  away  from  her,  was  breaking  on 
the  pebbles  with  a  sound  that  is  dead  against  serious 
mental  application.  There  was  a  drowsy  hum  of  in 
sects  in  the  air.  a  faint  whispering  in  the  trees  over 
head.  She  took  off  the  light  hat  that  shaded  her  face, 
and  threw  it  on  the  grass,  and  leaning  back  in  the  high- 
backed  cane  chair,  thought  what  a  comfort  not  to  be 
in  a  hurry  about  anything.  She  was  delicately  and 
coolly  dressed,  just  fresh  from  a  bath  and  asleep.  Life 
seemed  luxurious  at  that  moment.  She  watched  a  sail 
boat,  almost  as  idle  as  she  was  herself,  lolling  across 
the  bay,  the  faint  west  wind  coming  in  light  puffs  that 
gave  it  but  little  impetus.  Presently  the  plash  of  oars 
aroused  her,  and  turning  her  head  she  saw  St.  John 
pulling  up  to  the  beach. 

"  Ah,  that's  nice  !  "  she  cried.     "  You've  come  to 
tea." 

"  Well,  yes,  but  it  is  not  tea  time  yet." 
"  Not  for  an  hour  and  a  half.     This    is  very    self- 
indulgent,  coming  home  to  tea  twice  in  one  week.     I 
am  afraid  Bridget  hasn't  got  the  receipt  for  muffins 
quite  through  her  head  yet." 


THE    PEOPLE    NEXT    DOOR.  51 

"  Yes,  Bridget  does  very  well.  I  wish  every  one 
did  as  well  as  Bridget.  .  Myself,  for  instance." 

"Oh,  nonsense  ;  now  you're  moping  again." 

"  No,  I  am  not.  Nothing  as  excusable  as  that. 
But  I'm  lazy.  How  can  any  one  keep  from  getting 
that  in  this  place,  I  should  like  to  know  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  why  this  place  must  bear  the  blarne 
of  all  one's  moods,"  said  Missy,  much  annoyed.  "2 
don't  get  lazy  here." 

"  But  you  see  I  do." 

"  Maybe  you'd  do  that  anywhere." 

"I'll  put  myself  where  I  sha'n't  have  any  more 
chance  to  be  lazy  than  a  car  horse  ;  where  it  won't  be 
a  question  of  whether  I  want  to  go  or  not.  I  gave  you 
fair  warning,  Missy  ;  I  told  you  this  wasn't  the  life  for 
me." 

"  Well,  if  you  want  to  make  me  perfectly  wretch 
ed — "  said  Missy,  throwing  down  her  book. 

St.  John  had  come  up  from  the  beach,  and  had 
thrown  himself  on  the  grass,  with  his  hands  clasped 
under  his  head,  his  hat  lying  beside  him. 

"  I  won't  talk  of  it  if  it  makes  you  wretched.  Only 
you  mustn't  be  surprised  when  I  decide  upon  anything 
you  don't  like." 

"I'd  rather  be  surprised  once  than  worried  out  of 
my  life  all  the  time." 

"  Very  well,  it's  agreed."  And  St.  John  was  silent, 
•which  Missy  did  not  mean  him  to  be.  She  wanted  to 
argue  with  him  about  his  restlessness. 

"  Such  a  good  work  as  you  are  doing,"  she  said. 
"Think  what  every  one  says  about  you." 


53         THE  PEOPLE  NEXT  DOOR. 

"I  don't  want  to  think  about  it,  if  you  please." 

"  Think  of  all  those  Rogers  children  being  baptised, 
and  of  old  Hillyard  coming  into  the  church.  I  should 
as  soon  have  thought  of  Ship  Point  Rock  melting  as 
his  hard  heart.  Nobody  ever  heard  of  anything  more 
wonderful.  And  the  repairs  of  the  church  ;  how  the 
people  are  giving.  Think  what  it  will  be  to  see  a 
recess  chancel,  and  stalls,  and  a  real  altar." 

"Yes,"  said  her  brother,  with  a  sigh,  "that  will  be 
very  nice.  But  it  will  come  on  now  anyway.  Any 
body  can  do  it." 

"  Oh,  St.  John,  you  dishearten  me.  Already  you 
want  to  do  '  some  great  thing.'  Isn't  that  a  bad  sign, 
for  so  young  a  man  ?  " 

He  was  silent. 

"I  wish,"  she  said,  with  a  shade  of  impatience,  "I 
wish  you'd  tell  me,  if  you  don't  mind,  what  sort  of 
work  you  want  to  do?  What  sort  of  people,  pray,  do 
you  want  to  have  the  charge  of  ?  " 

"  I  like  wicked  people,"  he  said,  very  quietly. 

"You — St.  John  !  Fie.  What  do  you  know  about 
wickedness?" 

"  More  than  you  think,  perhaps,"  he  said  uneasily, 
getting  up,  and  turning  his  back  upon  the  blue  water. 
"Come,  we  won't  talk  about  this  any  more.  What 
have  you  been  doing  since  Tuesday,  and  how  is 
mamma  ?  " 

"Mamma  is  as  usual  ;  we  havn't  done  anything  of 
interest.  Oh,  yes.  I  went  to  call  on  the  new  people 
next  door  ;  and  we  are  much  interested  in  making  out 
what  and  who  they  are.  I  was  not  admitted.  Mad 
ame  is  an  invalid,  I  believe,  and  rarely  sees  any  one. 


THE    PEOPLE    NEXT    DOOR.  53 

The  children  are  queer  little  things,  the  girl  a  beauty. 
I  see  them  often  peeping  through  the  hedge." 

"  How  about  the  gentleman  ?  have  you  seen 
him?" 

"  No  ;  the  Olors  know  him  slightly  and  say  he's 
nice.  The  wife  seems  to  be  a  mystery.  No  one  knows 
anything  about  her.  I  am  quite  curious.  They  have 
lived  several  years  abroad,  and  do  not  seem  to  have 
many  ties  here.  At  least  no  one  seems  to  know  much 
of  them,  in  the  city." 

"I  hope  they're  church  people?" 

"  I  don't  know,  indeed.  I  should  not  think  it  likely. 
The  children  have  an  elfish,  untamed  look,  and  there  is 
such  a  troop  of  foreign-looking  servants.  What  they 
need  of  all  those  people  to  keep  such  a  plain,  small 
house  going,  I  can't  imagine.  I  have  no  doubt  they 
will  demoralize  our  women.  Two  nurses  do  nothing 

O 

but  sit  on  the  beach  all  day,  and  look  at  the  two  chil 
dren  who  dig  in  the  sand.  The  coachman  never  seems 
to  do  anything  but  smoke  his  pipe  from  the  time  of 
taking  his  master  to  the  cars  in  the  morning  till  the 

O  ~ 

time  of  going  for  him  in  the  evening.  They  have  a 
man-waiter.  I  cannot  think  what  for.  He  and  the 
cook  and  the  maid  all  seem  to  be  French,  and  spend 
much  of  their  morning  in  the  boat-house.  We  have 
the  'Fille  de  Mrne.  Angot,'  and  odors  of  cheap  cigars 
across  the  hedge.  It  isn't  pleasant." 

"  How  you  do  long  to  reconstruct  that  house 
hold  ! " 

"  In  self-defense.  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  we  had  to 
change  every  servant  in  our  house  before  the  summer  is 
over.  Even  Goneril  does  nothing  but  furtively  watch 


54  THE    PEOPLE    NEXT    DOOR. 

them  from  the  upper  windows   and    make   reflections 
upon  the  easy  times  they  have." 

At  this  moment  there  was  a  splash  in  the  water,  and 
a  cry.  They  had  been  sitting  witli  their  backs  to  the 
shell  which  St.  John  had  left  below  on  the  beach,  and 
a  boy  of  five,  the  new  neighbors'  boy,  had  climbed  into 
it,  and,  quite  naturally,  tumbled  out  of  it.  St. 
John  vaulted  over  the  fence,  took  two  or  three  strides 
into  the  water,  and  picked  him,  out. 

"  Eleigho,  young  man,  what  would  you  have  done  if 
I  hadn't  been  here  ?  "  he  said,  landing  him  dripping  on 
the  beach. 

"Let  me  alone,  will  you  !"  cried  the  sturdy  fellow, 
showing  his  gratitude  and  his  shocked  nerves  by  kick 
ing  at  his  benefactor.  He  did  not  cry,  but  he  swelled 
with  his  efforts  to  keep  from  it. 

"  Of  course  I  will,"  said  his  preserver  mildly,  look 
ing  down  at  him.  "  But  I'd  like  to  know  what's  be 
come  of  your  nurse.  Where  is  she  V  " 

"  None  of  you's  business,"  returned  this  sweet  child, 
putting  down  his  head.  He  was  a  dear  little  fellow, 
sturdy  and  well  built,  with  stout  bare  legs,  and  tawny 
hair,  banged  on  the  forehead,  and  long  and  wavy  be 
hind.  He  had  clear  blue  eyes,  and  a  very  tanned  skin 
and  very  irregular  features.  He  spoke  with  an  accent 
of  mixed  Irish  and  French. 

"  I'm  very  sorry  about  it,"  said  St.  John,  gently, 
"but  I'm  afraid  you'll  get  cold.  Better  tell  me  where 
to  find  the  nurse." 

"  None  of  you's  business,"  returned  the  boy. 

"  There  she  is,"  said  Missy  in  a  low  voice,  "  ever  so 


THE    PEOPLE    NEXT    DOOR.  55 

far  beyond  the  steamboat  landing,  with  the  waiter.  See 
if  you  can  make  them  hear." 

St.  John  put  his  hand  to  his  mouth  and  called.  But 
alas  !  they  were  too  deeply  engrossed  for  such  a  sound 
to  reach  them. 

"The  child  will  get  a  horrid  cold,"  said  Missy,  "it 
won't  do  to  wait.  I'll  take  him  up  to  the  house,  and 
send  one  of  the  servants  home  with  him." 

But  Missy  reckoned  without  her  host  ;  this  latter 
declined  to  go  to  "  her  house,"  and  planted  his  feet 
firmly  in  the  sand. 

"  You'll  have  to  carry  him,"  she  intimated  solto  voce 
to  her  brother.  Then  he  hit  from  the  shoulder,  and  it 
was  well  seen  that  was  not  a  thing  that  could  be  done. 
The  shock  to  his  nerves  and  the  bath  had  already  re 
sulted  in  making  his  lips  blue.  The  water  was  drip 
ping  from  his  hair  to  his  neck,  and  it  was  fair  to  sup 
pose  he  felt  a  little  chilly,  as  the  breeze  was  increasing 
a  trifle. 

"I'll  tell  you,"  said  Missy,  cheerfully.  "  You  shall 
take  me  to  your  house,  if  you  won't  go  to  mine.  I 
don't  know  the  way,  but  I  suppose  you  do.  Through 
the  boat-house?" 

The  boy  lifted  his  eyes  doubtfully  to  see  if  she  were 
in  good  faith,  glowered  at  St.  John,  and  after  a  mo 
ment  made  a  step  towards  the  boat-house. 

"  What  a  nice  boat-house  you've  got,"  said  Missy, 
walking  on  in  front  of  him.  "  I  wish  we  had  as  big  a 
one." 

"  Got  my  things  in  it,"  said  the  child,  and  then, 
frightened  at  his  own  part  in  the  conversation,  put 
down  his  head  and  was  silent. 


56  THE    PEOPLE    NEXT    DOOR. 

"Do  you  keep  your  toys  here  ?  Why,  how  nice  !  " 
exclaimed  Missy,  pausing  at  the  door.  "  Why,  what  a 
nice  room,  and  here's  a  baby-house.  Pray  whose  is 
that?" 

"  That's  Gabby's,  and  that's  mine — and  this  is  my 
wheelbarrow — and  that's  her  hoop — "  And  so  on, 
through  a  catalogue  of  playthings  that  would  have  set 
up  a  juvenile  asylum. 

"  I  never  saw  so  many  playthings,"  said  Missy,  get 
ting  hold  of  his  hand  in  a  moment  of  enthusiasm  over 
a  new  velocipede.  "  Have  you  got  any  more  up  at  the 
house?" 

"  Lots,"  said  the  boy,  succinctly. 

"  Won't  you  take  me  to  see  them  ?  "  And  so,  hand 
in  hand,  they  set  off,  St.  John  watching  them  from  the 
door  of  the  boat-house  with  amusement. 

Before  they  reached  the  house,  Missy  began  to 
have  some  misgivings  about  the  proceeding.  She  did 
not  enjoy  the  idea  of  taking  the  enemy  in  the  rear. 
What  sort  of  people  were  they,  and  how  would  they 
like  the  liberty  of  having  her  enter  from  the  beach  ? 
Some  people  do  not  like  to  be  indebted  to  their  neigh 
bors  for  saving  their  children's  lives.  It's  all  a  matter 
of  temperament,  education — and  they  might  not  like 
the  precedent.  She  wished  she  might  find  a  servant  to 
whose  care  to  commit  him,  and  herself  steal  out  the 
way  she  had  come  in.  But,  though  there  had  seemed 
to  be  nothing  but  servants  visible  every  time  she  had 
passed  the  house,  or  looked  over  at  it  from  the  upper 
windows,  there  were  none  to  be  found  to-day.  The 
place  was  as  silent  as  if  no  one  lived  in  it.  She  paused 
at  the  kitchen  door,  and  called  faintly,  and  told  the 


THE    PEOPLE    NEXT    DOOR.  57 

boy  to  call,  which  he  did  with  a  good  courage.  But  no 
response.  Then  they  went  around  to  the  front  piazza, 
and  the  boy,  Jay,  he  said  his  name  was,  strutted  up 
and  down  it,  and  declined  to  go  in,  or  to  go  up  stairs. 
He  was  getting  bluer  about  the  lips,  and  she  knew  he 
must  not  be  left.  So  she  rang  the  bell,  several  times, 
with  proper  intervals,  but  there  was  no  answer.  At 
last  she  went  into  the  hall,  and  taking  a  shawl  she 
found  there,  wrapped  it  around  the  child. 

"  Play  you  were  a  Highland  Chief,"  she  said,  and 
he  submitted. 

She  rang  once  more,  and  then  followed  the  tugging 
of  Jay's  hand  through  the  hall  into  the  dining-room. 
There  the  table  was  laid,  quite  in  state,  for  one.  From 
the  adjacent  kitchen  came  an  odor  of  soup,  which  was 
very  good,  but  there  was  no  living  thing  visible  in  it  but 
a  big  dog,  who  thumped  his  tail  hard  on  the  floor.  Then 
they  went  back  into  the  hall,  and  over  the  stairs  came 
a  voice,  rather  querulous  : 

"Veil,  vot  is  it — Vitef  Vhere  are  all  se  ser 
vants?"  Then,  seeing  a  lady,  the  maid  came  down  a 
few  steps  and  apologized.  Missy  led  up  the  child  and 
explained  the  condition  of  affairs.  Jay  began  to  frown, 
and  fret  and  pull  away,  as  soon  as  she  approached  him. 
It  was  clear  Alphonsine  was  not  one  of  his  affinities. 
She  was  a  coffee-colored  Frenchwoman,  with  a  good  ac 
cent  and  a  bad  temper,  and  had  been  asleep  when  the 
sixth  ring  of  the  bell  had  reached  her.  Missy  began 
to  be  pretty  sick  of  the  whole  business,  and  to  wish  to 
be  out  of  it.  So,  rather  peremptorily  advising  her  to 
change  the  child's  clothes  and  rub  him  well,  she  started 
to  go  away,  boldly  departing  by  the  front  gate,  which 
3* 


53        THE  PEOPLE  NEXT  DOOR. 

was  not  a  stone's  throw  from  their  own  entrance.  But 
she  had  barely  reached  the  gate  when  the  French 
woman  came  running  after  her,  with  a  most  voluble 
apology,  and  a  message  from  Madame,  that  if  it  would 
not  be  asking  too  much  of  the  young  lady,  would  she 
kindly  come  back  for  a  moment  and  allow  Madame  to 
express  to  her  her  thanks  for  her  great  goodness  ?  The 
woman  explained  that  her  mistress  was  an  invalid,  and 
put  the  matter  in  such  a  light  that  there  was  no  chance 
of  refusing  to  go  back,  which  was  what  Missy  would 
very  much  have  liked  to  do.  The  whole  thing  seemed 
awkward  and  uncomfortable,  and  she  turned  back  feel 
ing  as  little  inclined  to  be  gracious  as  possible. 

The  woman  led  the  way  up  the  stairs,  at  the  head 
of  which  stood  Jay,  his  teeth  now  chattering. 

"  Pray  get  his  wet  clothes  off  !  "  she  said  to  the 
woman.  "  I'll  find  my  way,  if  you'll  point  out  the 
door." 

The  woman  was  not  much  pleased  with  this,  and 
showed  it  by  preceding  her  to  the  door,  and  watching 
her  well  into  the  room  before  she  turned  to  push  the 
unwilling  Jay  into  the  nursery,  and  with  deliberation, 
not  to  say  sullenness,  take  off  his  dripping  clothes. 

Missy  found  herself  in  a  pretty  room,  rather  warm, 
and  rather  dark,  and  rather  close  with  foreign-smellng 
toilet  odors.  Before  she  had  seen  or  spoken  to  the  lady 
on  the  sofa,  she  had  felt  a  strong  inclination  to  push 
open  the  windows,  and  let  in  the  glory  of  the  sinking 
western  sun,  and  the  fresh  breeze  of  evening.  She  felt 
a  healthy  revolt  from  the  rich  smells  and  the  dim  light. 
A  soft  voice  spoke  to  her  from  the  sofa,  and  then,  as 
she  came  nearer,  she  saw  the  loveliest  creature  !  Like 


THE  PEOPLE  NEXT  DOOR.       59 

all  plain  women,  she  had  an  enthusiasm  for  beauty  in 
her  o\vn  sex.  She  almost  forgot  to  speak,  she  was  so 
enchanted  with  the  face  before  her.  It  was,  indeed, 
beautiful  ;  rare,  dark  eyes,  perfect  features,  skin  of 
a  lovely  tint.  Missy  was  so  dazzled  by  the  sight  she 
hardly  knew  whether  she  were  attracted  or  not.  The 
lady's  voice  was  low  and  musical.  Missy  did  not  know 
Avhether  she  liked  the  voice  or  not.  She  could  only 
listen  and  wonder.  It  was  an  experience — something 
new  come  into  her  life.  She  felt,  in  an  odd  sort  of  way, 
how  small  her  knowledge  of  people  was  ;  how  much 
existed  from  which  she  had  been  shut  out. 

"I've  lived  among  people  just  like  myself  all  my 
life  ;  it's  contemptible,"  she  thought.  "  No  wonder  I 
am  narrow.  A  woman  lives  suc.h  a  stupid  life  at 
home." 

She  sat  down  and  talked  with  Mrs.  Andrews.  Mrs. 
Andrews  !  What  a  prosaic  name  for  this  exotic  plant  ; 
as  if  one  called  a  Fritallaria  Imperialis  a  potato.  She 
began  to  wonder  about  Mr.  Andrews.  What  was  he  ? 
Why  had  no  one  told  her  these  people  were  remark 
able  ?  She  almost  forgot  to  answer  questions,  and 
bear  her  part  in  the  conversation.  She  did  not  yet 
know  whether  she  admired  or  not.  She  only  knew 
she  was  near  a  person  who  had  lived  a  different  life 
from  hers  ;  who  had  a  history  ;  who  probably  didn't 
think  as  she  did  on  any  one  subject  ;  who  was  enter- 
irg  from  a  side  door,  the  existence  of  which  she  had 
not  guessed,  upon  a  scene  which  had  seemed  to  be 
long  to  Missy  and  her  sort  alone.  From  what  realms 
did  she  come  ?  In  what  school  had  she  been  taught  ? 
She  could  not  make  her  out,  while  she  was  being 


60  THE    PEOPLE    NEXT    DOOR. 

thanked  for  bringing  Jay  liome.  There  was  a  languor 
about  her  manner  of  speaking  of  tl  e  little  boy,  which 
did  not  satisfy  Missy,  used  to  mammas  who  lived  for 
their  children,  and  considered  it  the  pride  and  glory 
of  life  to  know  nothing  beyond  the  nursery.  This 
was  the  first  mother  who  had  ever  dared  to  be  languid 
about  her  children  on  Missy's  small  stage.  She  did 
not  understand,  and  perhaps  showed  her  perplexity,  for 
her  new  acquaintance,  with  a  faint  sigh,  said  :  ';  Poor 
little  Jay  ;  he  is  so  strong  and  vehement,  so  alien. 
I  believe  he  terrifies  rne.  I  think  it  must  be  because  I 
am  weak." 

"  I  never  liked  a  child  so  much  ;  he  is  a  little  man," 
said  Missy,  warmly. 

"Ah,  yes  !  you  are  well  and  strong  ;  you  are  in 
sympathy  with  him — but  I — ah,  well,  I  hope,  Miss 
Rothermel,  you  will  never  have  to  feel  yourself  use 
less  and  a  burden." 

"  I  hope  not,  I  am  sure,"  said  Missy  honestly,  feel 
ing  a  little  hurt  on  Jay's  account,  but  still  a  great  deal 
of  pity  for  the  soft  voiced  invalid.  "  Mamma  could 
understand  you  better.  She  has  been  ill  many  years." 

"  Ah,  the  dear  lady  \  I  wish  that  I  might  know 
her.  But  with  her  it  is  different  in  a  way.  She  per 
haps  is  used  to  it,  if  ever  one  can  be  used  to  misery. 
But  for  me  it  is  newer,  I  suppose,  and,  when  young, 
one  looks  for  pleasure,  just  a  little." 

Missy  colored  ;  she  had  forgotten  that  her  mother 
could  seem  old  to  any  one,  and  then  she  saw  how 
very  young  her  companion  really  was — younger  than 
herself,  no  doubt. 

"  It  is  very  hard,"  she  said.     "  Can't  you  interest 


THE    PEOPLE    NEXT    DO  OP,.  61 

yourself  in  the  children  at  all?     They  would  be  such 
a  diversion  if  you  could." 

"  My  little  Gabrielle,  yes.  But  Jay  is — so  differ 
ent,  you  know — so  noisy  ;  I  believe  he  makes  me  ill 
every  time  he  comes  near  me." 

"Gabrielle  looks  like  you,"  said  Missy.  "I  have 
seen  her  on  the  beach  sometimes." 

Then  the  beautiful  eyes  lighted  up,  and  Missy 
began  to  be  enchanted.  She  did  not  know  that  she 
had  produced  the  illumination,  and  that  the  beauti 
ful  creature  was  made  happy  by  an  opportunity  to 
talk  about  herself.  She  gradually — sweetly  slid  into  it, 
and  Missy  was  wrapt  in  admiration.  Her  companion 
talked  well  about  herself,  con  amore,  but  delicately 
and  like  a  true  artist.  A  beautiful  picture  was  grow 
ing  up  before  Missy.  She  would  have  been  at  a  loss 
to  say  who  painted  it.  She  did  not  even  think  her 
egotistic,  though  she  would  have  pardoned  egotism  in 
one  who  seemed  so  much  better  worth  talking  of 
than  ordinary  people.  Her  loneliness,  her  suffering, 
her  youth,  her  exile  from  her  own  people,  her  un 
congenial  surroundings — how  had  Missy  learned  so 
much  in  one-half  hour?  And  yet  Mrs.  Andrews  had 
not  seemed  to  talk  about  herself.  It  was  sketchy  ;  but 
Missy  was  imaginative,  and  when  a  carriage  driving 
to  the  gate  made  her  start  up,  she  was  surprised  to 
find  it  was  half  an  hour  instead  of  half  a  life-time 
since  she  had  come  into  the  room. 

"It  is  Mr.  Andrews,"  she  said,  glancing  from  the 
window,  "and  I  must  go." 

"  Don't !  "  said  the  invalid,  earnestly. 

"  O,  it  would  be  better,"  said  Missy,  "  it  is  so  awk 
ward.  I  know  husbands  hate  to  find  tiresome  friends 


62  THE    PEOPLE    NEXT    DOOR. 

always  in  their  wives'  rooms  when  they  come 
home." 

"  Yes,  perhaps  so,  when  they  come  to  their  wives' 
rooms  when  they  get  home." 

There  was  a  slight  distension  of  the  nostril  and  a 
slight  compression  of  the  lips  when  this  was  said. 
Missy  flushed  between  embarrassment  and  indignation. 
Was  it  possible  that  Mr.  Andrews  was  a  brute,  and 
was  not  at  this  moment  on  the  stairs  on  his  way  to 
this  lonely  lovely  sufferer? 

Mrs.  Andrews  did  not  want  her  to  go — she  stayed 
at  least  ten  minutes,  standing  ready  to  depart.  As 
she  went  down  the  stairs,  the  servant  passed  through 
the  hall,  and  she  heard  him  announce  dinner  to  his  mas 
ter,  who  promptly  came  in  from  the  piazza,  by  which 
means,  he  and  Missy  were  brought  face  to  face  in  the 
hall  near  the  dining-room  door.  Mr.  Andrews 
probably  felt,  but  did  not  express  any  astonishment  at 
seeing  a  strange  young  lady  in  white  muslin,  without 
even  the  conventionality  of  a  hat  upon  her  head,  walk 
ing  about  his  temporary  castle  ;  he  merely  bowed,  and, 
being  very  hungry,  went  into  the  dining-room  to  get 
his  dinner.  As  for  Missy,  she  felt  it  was  very  awk 
ward,  and  she  was  also  full  of  resentment.  She  in 
clined  her  head  in  the  slightest  manner,  and  only 
glanced  at  him  to  see  whether  he  was  remarkable- 
looking,  and  whether-he  had  any  right  to  be  a  tyrant 
and  a  brute.  It  takes  a  very  handsome  man  to  have 
any  such  right  as  that,  and  Mr.  Andrews  was  by  no 
means  handsome.  lie  was  not  tall — rather  a  short 
man,  and  almost  a  stout  man.  Not  that  exactly,  but 
still  not  as  slight  as  he  ought  to  have  been  for  his 
height.  He  was  not  young  either — certainly  forty, 


TEE    PEOPLE    NEXT    DOOR.  63 

possibly  more.  He  had  blue  eyes,  and  hair  and  whisk- 
err,  of  light  brown.  The  expression  of  his  face  was 
rather  stern.  He  was  evidently  thinking  of  something 
tli at  gave  him  no  pleasure  when  he  looked  up  and  saw 
Missy,  and  there  was  perhaps  nothing  in  the  sight  of 
her  that  induced  him  to  cast  the  shadow  from  his 
brow.  So  she  did  not  see  that  he  had  a  good  smile, 
and  that  his  eyes  were  particularly  intelligent  and 
keen.  She  hurried  past  him  with  the  settled  belief 
that  he  was  a  monster  of  cruelty  ;  the  odor  of  the 
soup,  which  was  particularly  good,  and  the  sound  of 
the  chair  upon  the  floor  as  it  was  pushed  up  before 
the  lonely  table,  and  the  clinking  of  a  glass  were  added 
touches  to  the  dark  picture. 

"I  suppose  he  hasn't  given  her  a  thought,"  she  said  to 
herself,  as  the  gate  shut  after  her.  "  Dinner,  imagine  it, 
comes  first.  He  looks  like  a  gourmand;  he  is  a  gourmand, 
I  am  sure.  That  soup  was  perfectly  delicious  ;  I  wish 
I  had  the  receipt  for  it.  But  he  is  worse  than  a 
gourmand.  Gourmands  are  often  good-natured.  He 
is  a  tyrant,  and  I  hate  him.  Think  of  the  misery  of 
that  poor  young  thing  !  How  could  she  have  married 
him?  I  would  give  worlds  to  know  her  history.  lie 
isn't  capable  of  a  history.  I  suppose  she  must  have 
been  very  poor,  and  forced  into  the  marriage  by  her 
parents.  Nothing  else  can  account  for  such  a  mesal 
liance." 

When  she  entered  the  parlor,  St.  John  was  sit 
ting  by  his  mother's  sofa.  "  How  is  our  young 
friend  ?"  he  said.  "Remember  I  saved  his  life;  so 
don't  put  on  any  airs  because  you  got  him  to  go 
home." 


64  THE    PEOPLE    NEXT    DOOR. 

"  It  was  a  great  deal  harder  work,"  said  Missy  ; 
"and  you  like  hard  work,  you  say.  But,  mamma,  I 
have  seen  her,  and  she  is  the  loveliest  creature — Mrs. 
Andrews,  I  mean  !  She  is  confined  to  her  room — 
never  leaves  it — a  hopeless  invalid.  And  he  is  a  brute, 
an  utter  brute  !  I  can  hardly  find  words  to  describe 
him.  He  is  short  and  stout,  and  has  a  most  sinister 
expression.  And  now  think  of  this — listen  to  what  I 
say  :  He  went  in  to  dinner,  without  going  up  to  her 
room  at  all!  Can  you  think  of  anything  more  heart 
less  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  St.  John,  commonplacely  ;  "  not 
sending  her  up  any  dinner  would  have  been  worse — 
not  paying  her  bills — not  taking  her  to  the  coun 
try." 

Missy  scorned  to  reply  to  him,  but  directed  her 
conversation  to  her  mother.  "Her  beauty  is  very 
remarkable,  and  she  seems  so  young.  The  man  is  cer 
tainly  forty.  I  really  wish  I  could  find  out  something 
about  them.  She  is  French,  I  think,  though  she  speaks 
without  an  accent.  She  is  so  different  from  the  people 
one  sees  every  day  ;  she  gives  you  an  idea  of  a  differ 
ent  life  from  ours.  And  for  my  part,  I  am  glad  to  see 
something  of  another  stratum.  Do  you  know,  I  think 
we  are  very  narrow  ?  All  women,  of  course,  are  from 
necessity  ;  but  it  seems  to  me  I  have  led  a  smaller  life 
than  other  women." 

"I  don't  think  you  need  regret  it,"  said  her  bro 
ther,  seriously  ;  "  it  saves  yon  a  great  deal." 

"Pray  don't  say  anything,  you  who  like  wicked 
people." 

St.  John  was  "  hoist  with  his  own  petard." 


THE    PEOPLE    NEXT    DOOR.  G5 

"  Then  you  think  I  might  enjoy  Mr.  and  Mrs.  An 
drews?"  lie  said. 

"  Mr.  Andrews  would  satisfy  all  your  aspirations," 
returned  Missy  ;  "  but  not  his  wife,  unless  it  is  wicked 
to  be  unconventional." 

"  But  how  did  you  find  out  she  was  unhappy  ;  I 
hope  she  didn't  tell  you  so  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Varian. 

"  No,  of  course  she  did  not  !  I  don't  really  know 
how  I  divined  it  ;  but  it  Avas  most  easy  to  see.  And 
then  he  did  not  come  up  to  see  her !  is  not  that 
enough  ?" 

"Perhaps  he  was  hungry — unusually  hungry;  or 
perhaps  he  is  a  victim  to  dyspepsia,  and  cannot  go 
through  any  excitement  upon  an  empty  stomach. 
You  know  his  doctors  may  have  forbidden  him." 

"  Really,  St.  John,"  said  Missy,  much  annoyed,  "it 
is  not  safe  to  find  fault  with  a  man  in  your  presence. 
Your  class  feeling  is  so  strong,  I  think  you  would  de 
fend  him  if  he  had  two  wives." 

"  Who  knows  but  that  may  be  the  trouble  ?"  he 
said.  "He  didn't  know  which  to  go  to  first,  and  he 
may  have  had  to  send  two  dinners  up.  No  wonder 
that  he  has  dyspepsia  !  That  being  the  case — " 

"You  are  rather  illogical  for  a  man.  Who  said 
he  had  dyspepsia?  What  does  that  stand  upon? 
Mamma,  I  want  to  have  the  children  in  here  often. 
Jay  is  a  darling,  and  as  to  Gabby — " 

"  Gabby  !"  repeated  her  mother. 

"  Gabrielle,"  said  Missy,  blushing,  and  glancing 
anxiously  at  her  brother,  to  see  if  he  were  laughing. 
"  It  was  Jay  called  her  Gabby — a  horrid  shortening, 
certainly.  Gabrielle  is  a  lovely  name,  I  think.  But 


C6  GABBY    AND    JAY. 

what's  the  matter,  St.  John?  What  have  I  said 
now?" 

"Nothing,"  said  her  brother,  in  a  forced,  changed 
voice,  as  he  got  up  and  walked  about  the  room,  every 
sparkle  of  merriment  gone  from  his  eyes. 

"  It  is  time  for  tea,  is  it  not  ?"  said  Mrs.  Varian. 

"Yes,  I  suppose  it  is,"  returned  Missy,  wearily, 
getting  up  and  crossing  over  to  ring  the  bell,  as  if  tea 
were  one  of  the  boundaries  of  her  narrow  sphere. 


CHAPTER  V. 
GABBY   AND   JAY. 


FTER  that,  there  were  daily  visits  to  Mrs.  An 
drews,  daily  messages  passing  between  the 
houses,  daily  hours  with  Gabby  and  Jay 
upon  the  beach.  It  became  the  most  inter 
esting  part  of  Miss  Rothermel's  life.  It  was  a  romance 
to  her,  though  she  thought  she  was  not  romantic.  Her 
drearn  was  to  do  good,  a  great  deal  of  good,  to  some 
body,  all  the  better  if  she  happened  to  like  the  some 
body.  It  was  tiresome  to  do  good  all  the  time  to  Aunt 
Harriet,  who  was  all  the  time  there  ready  to  be  done 
good  to.  It  was  not  conceivable  that  mamma  could 
need  her  very  much — mamma,  who  had  St.  John,  and 
who  really  did  not  seem  an  object  of  compassion  at  all, 
rather  some  one  to  go  to,  to  get  comforted.  She  was 
"  a-weary  "  of  the  few  poor  people  of  the  place.  They 
seemed  inexpressibly  "  narrow "  to  her  now.  She 


GASSY    AND    JAY.  67 

seemed  suddenly  to  have  outgrown  them.  She  con 
demned  herself  for  the  time  and  thought  she  had  be 
stowed  upon  them,  when  she  counted  up  the  pitiful 
results. 

"  I  suppose  I  have  spent  a  month,  and  driven  forty 
miles,  .and  talked  volumes,  if  it  were  all  put  together, 
to  get  that  wretched  Burney  boy  to  go  to  Sunday 
school.  And  what  does  it  amount  to,  after  .all,  now 
that  he  does  go  ?  lie  carries  things  in  his  pockets  to 
eat,  and  he  makes  the  other  children  laugh,  and  lie  sits 
on  the  gravestones  during  service,  and  whistles  loud 
enough  to  have  to  be  hunted  away  by  the  sexton  every 
Sunday.  No  ;  I  shall  let  him  go  now  ;  he  may  come 
or  not,  as  he  sees  fit." 

It  was  certainly  much  pleasanter  to  sit  on  the  beach 
and  curl  Jay's  tawny  hair,  and  make  him  pictures  on 
shells,  and  teach  him  verses,  and  his  letters.  Gabrielle, 
with  her  great  dark,  side-looking  eyes,  was  not  as  con 
genial  to  Missy,  but  even  she  was  more  satisfactory 
than  the  Burney  boy,  with  his  dirty  hands  and  terrible 
dialect.  Children  without  either  refinement  or  inno 
cence  are  not  attractive,  and  though  Missy  feared 
Gabby  was  not  quite  innocent,  she  had  a  good  deal  of 
refinement  in  appearance  and  manner.  She  spoke  with 
a  slow,  soft  manner,  and  never  looked  one  straight  in 
the  eye.  She  had  a  passion  for  jewelry  and  fine  clothes, 
and  made  her  way  direct  to  any  one  who  had  on  a 
bracelet  or  locket  of  more  than  ordinary  pretension, 
and  hung  over  it  fascinated.  It  wassometimes  difficult 
to  shako  her  off,  and  the  questions  she  asked  were 
wearisome.  Missy's  visitors  were  apt  to  pet  and  notice 
her  very  much  at  first  and  then  to  grow  very  tired  of 


68  GABB7    AND    JAY. 

her.  She  was  a  picturesque  object,  though  her  face 
was  often  dirty,  and  her  hair  was  always  wild.  She 
wore  beautiful  .clothes,  badly  put  on  and  in  wretched 
order  ;  embroidered  French  muslin  dresses  with  the 
ruffles  scorched  and  over-starched  ;  rich  Roman  scarfs 
with  the  fringes  full  of  straws  and  sticks  ;  kid  boots 
warped  at  the  heel,  and  almost  buttonless  ;  stockings 
faded,  darned  with  an  alien  color,  loose  about  the 
ankles.  All  this  was  a  trial  to  Missy,  whose  love  of 
order  and  neatness  was  outraged  by  the  lovely  little 
slattern. 

For  a  long  while  she  sewed  on  furtive  buttons, 
picked  clear  fringes,  re-instated  ruffles,  caught  up 
yawning  rents.  She  would  reconstruct  Gabby,  then 
catch  her  in  her  arms  and  kiss  her,  and  tell  her  how 
much  better  she  looked  when  she  was  neat.  Gabby 
would  submit  to  the  caress,  but  would  give  a  sidelong 
glance  at  Missy's  perfect  appointments — yawn,  stretch 
out  her  arms,  make  probably  a  new  rent,  and  tear 
away  across  the  lawn  to  be  caught  in  the  first  thorn 
presenting.  She  was  passionately  fond  of  fine  clothes, 
but  she  was  deeply  lazy,  and  inconsequently  Bohemian. 
The  idea  of  constraint  galled  her.  She  revolted  from 
Missy's  lectures  and  repairing  touches. 

Then  Missy  tried  her  'prentice  hand  on  the  faith 
less  servants.  The  faithless  servants  did  not  take  it 
kindly.  They  resented  her  suggestions,  and  hated 
her. 

Then  she  faintly  tried  to  bring  the  subject  to  the 
notice  of  the  mother.  This  was  done  with  many  mis 
givings,  and  with  much  difficulty,  for  it  was  not  easy 
to  get  the  conversation  turned  on  duties  and  possible 


GABBY    AND    JAY.  09 

failures.  Somehow,  it  was  always  a  very  different 
view  the  two  took  of  things,  when  they  had  their  long 
talks  together.  It  was  always  of  herself  that  Mrs. 
Andrews  talked — always  of  her  sufferings,  her  wrongs. 
When  your  friend  is  posturing  for  a  martyr,  it  is  hard 
to  get  her  into  an  attitude  of  penitence  without  hurt 
ing  her  feelings.  When  she  is  bewailing  the  faults  of 
others,  it  is  embarrassing  to  turn  the  office  into  a  con 
fession  of  her  own.  Missy  entered  on  her  task  hum 
bly,  knowing  that  it  would  be  a  hard  one.  She  did 
not  realize  why  it  would  be  so  hard.  She  had  a  ro 
mantic  pity  for  her  friend.  She  would  not  see  her 
faults.  Indeed,  any  one  might  have  been  blinded, 
who  began  with  a  strong  admiration.  When  a  wo 
man  is  too  ill  to  be  talked  to  about  her  duties  even,  it 
is  hard  to  expect  her  to  perform  them  with  rigor.  When 
Missy,  baffled  and  humbled,  returned  from  that  unfor 
tunate  mission,  she  acknowledged  to  herself  she  had 
attempted  an  impossibility.  "  She  cannot  see,  she 
never  has  seen — probably  she  never  will  be  obliged  to 
see,  what  neglect  her  children  are  suffering  from.  She 
is  too  ill  to  be  able  to  take  in  anything  outside  her 
sick  room.  The  cross  laid  on  her  requires  all  her 
strength.  It  is  cruelty  to  ask  her  to  bear  anything 
more.  I  am  ashamed  to  have  had  the  thought."  So 
she  turned  to  the  poor  little  children  so  sadly  orphaned, 
as  it  seemed  to  her,  and  with  tenderness,  tried  to 
lighten  their  lot,  and  shield  them  from  the  tyrannies 
and  negligences  of  their  attendants.  Little  Jay  lived 
at  his  new  friend's  house,  ate  at  her  table,  almost  slept 
in  her  bosom.  He  naturally  preferred  this  to  the  cold 


70  GABBY    AND    JAY. 

slatternliness  of  his  own   home,    and    he    was  rarely 
missed  or  inquired  for. 

"  lie  might  have  been  in  the  bay  for  the  past  five 
hours,  for  all  the  servants  know  about  it,"  said  Mrs. 
Varian,  to  whom  all  this  was  an  anxiety  and  depres 
sion.  "Don't  you  think,  Missy,  you  give  them  an  ex 
cuse  in  keeping  him  here  so  much  ?  They  naturally 
will  say,  if  anything  happens,  they  thought  he  was 
with  you,  and  that  you  take  him  away  for  such  long 
drives  and  walks,  they  never  know  where  to  find 
him." 

"My  dear  rnamrna,"  cried  Missy,  "don't  you 
think  the  wretches  would  find  an  excuse  for  whatever 
they  did  r  Is  their  duplicity  to  make  it  right  for  me 
to  abandon  rny  poor  little  man  to  them?" 

"  At  least  always  report  it  at  the  house  when  you 
take  him  away  for  half  a  day." 

So  after  that,  Missy  was  careful  to  make  known  her 
plan  at  the  Andrews'  before  she  took  Jay  away  for 
any  long  excursion.  She  would  stop  at  the  door  in  her 
little  pony-carriage,  and  lifting  out  Jay,  would  send 
him  in  to  say  to  a  pampered  menial  at  the  door,  that 
they  need  not  be  uneasy  about  him  if  he  did  not  come 
back  till  one  or  two  o'clock. 

"  We  won't  put  on  mournin'  for  ye  before  three, 
thin,  honey,"  said  the  man,  on  one  occasion.  Jay 
didn't  understand  the  meaning  of  the  words,  but  he 
understood  the  cynical  tone,  and  he  kicked  the  fellow 
O!i  a  beloved  calf.  Then  the  man,  enraged,  caught  him 
by  the  arm  and  held  him  off,  but  he  continued  to  kick 
and  hit  from  the  shoulder  with  his  one  poor  little  UM- 
pinioned  arm.  The  man  was  white  with  rage,  for  Jay 


GABBY'  AND    JAY.  71 

was  unpopular,  and  Miss  Ruthermel  also,  and  he  hated 
to  be  held  in  check  by  her  presence,  and  by  the  puerile 
fear  of  losing  his  place,  which  her  presence  created. 

Now  it  happened  on  this  pleasant  summer  morning 
that  Mr.  Andrews  had  not  gone  to  town,  and  that  he 
had  not  gone  out  on  the  bay,  as  was  supposed  in  the 
household,  the  wind  having  proved  capricious.  Conse 
quently  he  was  just  entering  from  the  rear  of  the  house, 
as  this  pretty  tableau  was  being  presented  on  the  front 
piazza.  When  the  enraged  combatants  raised  their 
eyes,  they  found  Mr.  Andrews  standing  in  the  hall 
door,  and  darkly  regarding  them. 

"  Papa  !  kill  him  !  "  cried  Jay,  as  the  flunky  sud 
denly  released  him,  dashing  at  the  unprotected  calves 
like  a  fury.  "  Kill  him  for  me  ! " 

"  With  pleasure,"  said  his  father,  calmly,  "  but  you 
let  it  alone.  Come  to  the  library  at  ten  o'clock,  I 
will  see  you  about  this  matter,"  he  said  to  the  man, 
who  slunk  away,  while  Jay  came  to  take  his  father's 
outstretched  hand,  very  red  and  dishevelled.  By  this 
time  Missy,  much  alarmed,  had  sprung  from  the  car 
riage,  and  ran  down  the  walk,  just  in  time  to  confront 
the  father.  He  was  beginning  to  question  the  boy,  but 
turning  around  faced  the  young  lady  unexpectedly, 
and  took  off  his  hat.  Missy  looked  flushed  and  as  ex 
cited  as  the  boy. 

"  I  hope  you  won't  blame  Jay,"  she  said,  "  for  it  is 
safe  to  say  it  is  the  man's  fault.  They  tease  him  shame 
fully,  and  he  is  such  a  little  fellow." 

Mr.  Andrews'  face  softened  at  these  words.  It  was 
plain  she  thought  he  was  severe  with  his  children,  but 
that  was  lost  in  the  sweetness  of  hearing  any  one  plead 


72  GABBY    AND    JAY. 

for  his  little  boy  with  that  intuitive  and  irrational  ten 
derness. 

"  I  want  to  hit  him  !  "  interrupted  Jay,  doubling  up 
his  fist.  "I  want  to  hit  him  right  in  his  ugly  mouth." 

"  Hush,"  said  his  father,  frowning,  "  little  boys 
must  not  hit  any  one,  least  of  all,  their  father's  servants. 
You  come  to  me  whenever  they  trouble  you,  and  I  will 
make  it  right." 

"  You're  never  here  when  they  do  it,"  said  the  child. 

"  Weil,  you  keep  quiet,  and  then  come  and  tell  me 
when  I  get  home." 

"I  forget  it  then,"  said  Jay,  naively. 

"Then  I  think  it  can't  go  very  deep,"  returned  his 
father,  smiling. 

"  It  will  go  deep  enough  to  spoil  his  temper  utterly, 
I'm  afraid,"  said  Missy,  biting  her  lips  to  keep  from 
saying  more. 

"  I  am  sorry  enough,"  he  began  earnestly,  but  catch 
ing  sight  of  her  face,  his  voice  grew  more  distant. 
"  I  suppose  it  is  inevitable,"  he  added  slowly,  as  Jay, 
loosing  his  hold  of  his  father's  hand,  picked  up  his 
hat,  straightened  his  frock,  and  went  over  to  Missy's 
side. 

"I  am  going  to  ride  with  Missy,"  he  said,  tugging 
a  little  at  her  dress.  "  Come,  it's  time." 

"Perhaps  your  father  wants  you  to  stay  with  him, 
as  he  isn't  often  at  home." 

"O  no,"  said  Mr.  Andrews,  as  they  all  walked  to 
wards  the  gate.  "  Jay  is  better  off  with  you,  I  am 
afraid,  and  happier.  And  I  want  to  thank  you,  Miss 
Rothermel,  for  your  many  kindnesses  to  the  children. 
I  assure  you,  I — I  appreciate  them  very  much." 


GABBY    AND    JAY.  73 

"  O,"  cried  Missy,  stiffly,  and  putting  very  sharp 
needles  into  her  voice,  "there  is  nothing  to  thank  me 
for.  It  is  a  pleasure  to  have  them  for  their  own 
sakes,  and  everything  that  I  can  do  to  make  Mrs. 
Andrews  more  comfortable  about  them,  is  an  added 
pleasure." 

Missy  knew  this  was  a  fib  the  instant  she  had 
uttered  it.  She  knew  it  didn't  make  Mrs.  Andrews  a 
straw  more  comfortable  to  know  the  children  were  in 
safe  hands  ;  but  she  wanted  to  say  something  to  punish 
this  brutal  husband,  and  this  little  stab  dealt  itself,  so 
to  speak.  She  was  very  sorry  about  the  fib,  but  she 
reflected  one  must  not  be  too  critical  in  dealing  with 
brutal  husbands  if  one's  motives  are  right.  Mr. 
Andrews  stiffened  too,  and  his  face  took  a  hard  and 
cynical  look. 

"  Undoubtedly,"  he  said,  and  then  he  said  no  more. 
Jay  held  the  gate  open  for  them. 

"  Come,"  he  said,  "  it's  time  to  go."  Missy  stepped 
into  the  low  carriage — disdaining  help,  and  gathered 
up  the  reins.  Mr.  Andrews  lifted  Jay  into  the  seat 
beside  her. 

"  And  I  guess  I'll  stay  to  dinner  with  Missy,  so  you 
needn't  send  for  me,"  said  Jay,  seating  himself  com 
fortably  and  taking  the  whip,  which  was  evidently  his 
prerogative.  Nobody  could  help  smiling,  even  brutal 
husbands  and  people  who  had  been  telling  fibs.  "  I 
haven't  heard  you  invited,"  said  the  representative  of 
the  former  class. 

"  O,  Jay  knows  he  is  always  welcome.  I  will  send 
him  home  before  evening,  if  I  may  keep  him  till 
then." 

Mr.  Andrews  bowed,  and  the  little  carriage  rolled 


74  A     PASSING     SOUL. 

away,  the  child  forgetting  to  look  back  at  his  father, 
eagerly  pleased  with  the  whip  and  the  drive,  and  the 
sunshine  and  the  morning  air.  Mr.  Andrews  watched 
them  out  of  sight,  and  as  they  were  lost  among  the 
trees  in  a  turn  of  the  road,  he  sighed  and  turned 
stolidly  towards  the  house.  It  was  a  low,  pretty  cot 
tage,  the  piazza  was  covered  with  flowering  vines,  there 
were  large  trees  about  it — tha  grass  was  green  and 
well-kept,  a  trim  hedge  separated  it  from  the  Vari.in 
place  ;  at  the  rear,  beyond  the  garden,  was  the  boat- 
house  and  then  a  low  fence  that  ran  along  the  yellow 
beach.  The  water  sparkled  clear  and  blue  ;  what  a 
morning  it  was  ;  and  what  a  peaceful,  pretty  attractive 
little  home  it  looked.  People  passing  along  the  road 
might  well  gaze  at  it  with  envy,  and  imagine  it  the 
"  haunt  of  all  affections  pure."  This  thought  passed 
through  Mr.  Andrews'  mind,  as  he  walked  from  the 
gate.  It  made  his  face  a  little  harder  than  usual,  and 
it  was  usually  hard  enough. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

A   PASSING   SOUL. 

T  was   six  weeks  after   this  ;  life  had  been 
going  on    with  little   change,    when     one 
morning  Missy  drew  the  reins  of  her  brown 
horse  before  the  Rectory   gate,  and  hur 
riedly  springing  out,  ran   down  the  path,  leaving  the 


A    PASSING    SOUL.  75 

carriage  at  the  roadside.  She  had  a  vail  tied  close 
across  her  face  ;  but  she  had  no  gloves,  and  her  man 
ner  showed  haste  and  excitement.  St.  John  was  in 
his  study.  She  ran  in,  exclaiming,  as  she  opened  the 
door  :  "  I  wish  you  could  come  with  me  immediately, 
St.  John.  Get  ready  ;  don't  stop  to  ask  questions.  I 
will  tell  you  while  you're  going." 

"Mamma?"  he  asked,  with  a  sudden  contraction 
of  the  face,  as  he  started  up  and  went  across  the  room 
to  get  his  hat. 

"  No  !  oh,  thank  Heaven  !  no.  But  don't  stop 
for  anything.  Come  ;  it  is  more  to  me  than 
you." 

Then  St.  John  knew  that  it  was  something  that 
concerned  the  Andrews'  ;  but  generously  made  all  the 
haste  he  could  in  following  her.  As  he  stepped  into 
the  carriage  after  her,  and  took  the  reins  from  her 
hand,  he  said  : 

"  Well !"  and  turned  to  listen. 

"  It  is  Mrs.  Andrews,"  she  said,  tremblingly.  "  She 
is  dying  ;  she  may  be  dead.  I  knew  nothing  of  it 
till  this  morning,  though  her  life  has  been  in  danger 
through  the  night.  Those  cruel  servants  did  not  send 
for  us,  and  she  has  been  in  too  much  suffering  to  ask 
for  any  one.  Now,  she  scarcely  knows  me,  but  at  first 
turned  to  me  eagerly.  She  had  something  to  say  ;  I 
don't  know  what.  But  she  will  never  say  it.  Oh,  St. 
John  !  Death  is  so  fearful — the  silence.  I  can  never 
hear  that  word,  whatever  it  is,  of  great  or  little  mo 
ment." 

"  Her  husband  is  with  her  ?" 

"That  is  the  dreadful  part.  He  is  not  at  home. 
There  is  no  one  to  do  anything.  How  they  got  the 


76  A     PASSING     SOUL. 

doctor  is  a  wonder  ;  except  there  is  a  brute  instinct, 
even  in  such  creatures,  that  runs  for  the  doctor.  It 
was  ages  before  I  could  find  the  address  of  Mr. 
Andrews  in  town.  Ages  before  I  could  get  any  one 
off  with  the  telegram.  I  came  for  you  myself,  because 
I  could  trust  no  one  else  to  get  you  quickly.  Oh,  St. 
John,  do  drive  a  little  faster  !" 

"And  what  am  I  to  do,  now  that  you  have  got 
me?"  said  her  brother,  in  a  low  tone,  gazing  before 
him  at  the  horse,  now  almost  on  a  gallop. 

"  Do  ?  oh,  St  John  !  save  her  !  say  a  prayer  for 
her !  help  her  !  What  are  such  as  you  to  do  but  that  ? 
I  didn't  think  you'd  ask  me.  Oh,  it  is  so  terrible  to 
think  of  her  poor  soul.  She  is  so  unr-eady ;  poor 
thing — unless  her  sufferings  will  stand  instead.  Don't 
you  think  they  may  ?  Don't  you  think  God  might 
accept  them  instead  of — of  spirituality  and  love  for 
Him  ?" 

"  We're  not  set  to  judge,  Missy,"  said  her  brother, 
soothingly.  "  Let  us  hope  all  we  can,  and  pray  all  we 
can.  I  wish  that  she  were  conscious^  if  only  for  one 
moment." 

"  Well,  pray  for  it,"  cried  Missy,  and  then  burst 
into  tears.  After  a  moment,  she  tur-ned  passionately 
to  him,  and  said  :  "St.  John,  I  am  afraid  it  is  partly 
for  my  own  comfort  I  want  her  to  speak  and  to  be 
conscious  for  one  moment.  I  want  to  feel  that  I  have 
a  right  to  hope  for  her  eternal  safety,  and  that  I 
haven't  been  wasting  all  these  weeks  in  talking  of 
things  that  didn't  concern  that,  when  I  might  have 
been  leading  her  to  other  thoughts.  Oh,  St.  John, 
tell  me,  ought  I  to  have  been  talking  about  her  soul  all 
this  time,  when  it  was  so  .hard  ?  She  was — oh,  I  know 


A     PASSfiTG    SOUL.-  77 

you  will  understand  me — she  was  so  full  of  her  suffer 
ings,  and — well,  of  herself,  that  I  couldn't  easily  talk 
about  what  I  knew  in  my  heart  she  ought  to  be  get 
ting  ready  for.  I  didn't  know  it  was  so  near.  Ah,  I 
wasted  the  hours,  and  now  her  blood  may  be  upon  my 
soul.  St.  John,  there  never  was  anybody  so  unready. 
It  appalls  me.  I  see  it  all  now.  Poor,  beautiful 
thing.  She  seems  to  be  only  made  for  earth.  Oh, 
the  awe  !  St  John,  if  I  had  been  a  very  good  person, 
utterly  holy,  I  might  have  saved  her,  might  I  not  ?  I 
should  not  have  thought  of  anything  else,  and  by  the 
force  of  my  one  purpose  and  desire,  I  could  have 
wakened  her." 

"  Maybe  not,  my  sister.  Don't  reproach  yourself  ; 
only  pray." 

Missy  twisted  her  hands  together  in  her  lap,  and 
was  motionless,  as  they  hurried  on.  In  a  moment 
more  they  were  standing  at  the  gate.  As  Missy  sprang 
out,  little  Jay  met  her,  fretting  and  crying. 

"  Oh,  why  haven't  they  taken  the  children  over  to 
mamma,  as  I  ordered  ?"  she  cried  ;  but  there  was  no 
one  to  make  excuse.  "  Go,  go,  my  dear  little  Jay," 
she  pleaded.  But  Jay  was  all  unstrung  and  unreason 
able,  feeling  the  gloom  and  discomfort.  "  See,"  she 
cried,  hurriedly  kneeling  down  on  the  grass  beside 
him,  "  go  to  Mrs.  Varian,  and  tell  her  you  are  come  to 
pay  her  a  little  visit ;  arxl  tell  her  to  let  you  go  to  my 
room,  and  on  the  table  there  you  will  find  a  little  pack 
age,  tied  up  in  a  white  paper  ;  and  it  is  for  you.  I  tied 
it  up  for  you  last  night.  Go  sec  what  it  is ;  you 
haven't  any  idea.  It  is  something  you  will  like  so 
much  !"  Jay  was  on  his  way  before  Missy  got  into 
the  house. 


78  A    PASSING     SOUL. 

It  was  a  warm  morning,  close  and  obscure.  One 
felt  the  oppression  in  every  nerve — an  August  suffoca 
tion.  Low  banks  of  threatening  clouds  lay  over  the 
island  that  shut  in  the  bay  from  the  Sound,  and  over 
the  West  Harbor.  They  boded  and  brooded,  but 
would  lie  there  for  the  many  hours  of  morning  and 
midday  that  remained.  Not  a  ripple  moved  the  sullen 
water  ;  not  a  leaf  stirred  on  the  trees  ;  the  sun  seemed 
hidden  deep  in  clouds  of  hot,  still  vapor.  The  house 
was  all  open,  doors  and  windows,  gasping  for  breath. 
In  the  hall  one  or  two  servants  stood  aimlessly  about, 
listening  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  or  whispering  to 
gether. 

St.  John  followed  his  sister  closely  as  she  entered 
the  house.  The  servants  made  way  for  her,  and  they 
went  quickly  up  the  stairs.  At  the  door  of  the  sick 
room  they  paused.  Another  woman,  wringing  her 
bands,  and  listening  with  keen  curiosity,  stood  gazing 
in.  The  room  was  in  the  most  confused  state.  The 
coffee-colored  Alphonsine  moved  stolidly  about,  and 
occasionally  put  a  piece  of  furniture  in  its  place,  or 
removed  a  garment  thrown  down  in  the  haste  and 
panic  of  the  past  night ;  but  standing  still,  more  often, 
to  gaze  back  at  the  bed.  She  crossed  herself  often,  in 
a  mechanical  manner,  but  looked  more  sullen  than 
sympathetic.  There  was  a  bath  in  the  middle  of  the 
room,  cloths  and  towels  strewn  upon  the  floor  beside 
it,  mustard,  a  night-lamp  flickering  still  in  the  face  of 
day,  a  bowl  of  ice,  some  brandy.  The  windows  were 
thrown  wide  open  ;  the  bed  stood  with  its  head  near 
one — another  one  was  opposite  to  it.  The  light  fell 
full  upon  the  ghastly  face  of  the  suffering  woman. 
Beauty  !  had  she  ever  been  beautiful  ?  "  Like  as  a 


A     PASSING    SOUL.  79 

moth  fretting  a  garment,"  so  had  her  anguish  made  her 
beauty  to  consume  away.  A  ghastly  being — suffering, 
agonized,  dying — wrestling  with  a  destroying  enemy  ! 
Such  conflicts  cannot  last  long  ;  the  end  was  near. 

As  St.  John  and  his  sister  entered  the  room,  the 
doctor,  who  stood  at  the  head  of  the  bed,  was  wiping 
the  perspiration  from  his  forehead  and  glancing  out  of 
the  window.  lie  was  troubled  and  worn  out  with  the 
night's  work,  and  was  watching  eagerly  for  a  brother 
physician  who  had  been  summoned  to  his  aid.  He 
knew  the  new-comer  could  do  no  good,  but  he  could 
share  the  responsibility  with  him,  and  bring  back  the 
professional  atmosphere  out  of  which  he  had  been  car 
ried  by  the  swift  and  terrible  progress  of  his  patient's 
malady.  Above  all  things,  the  doctor  wished  to  be 
professional  and  cool  ;  and  he  knew  he  was  neither  in 
the  midst  of  this  blundering  crowd  of  servants,  and 
in  the  sight  of  this  fiercely  dying  woman.  He  could 
have  wished  it  all  to  be  done  over  again.  He  had  lost 
hjs  head,  in  a  degree.  lie  did  not  believe  that  an}'- 
thing  could  have  arrested  the  flight  of  life;  all  the 
same  he  wished  he  had  known  a  little  more  about  the 
case  ;  had  taken  the  alarm  quicker  and  sent  for  other 
aid.  He  looked  harassed  and  helpless,  and  very  hot 
and  tired.  All  this  St.  John  saw  as  he  came  La  the 
room. 

Missy  looked  questioningly  at  him,  and  then  as  he 
gave  a  gesture  of  assent,  came  quickly  to  the  side  of 
the  bed.  She  half  knek  beside  it,  and  took  the 
poor  sufferer's  hand  in  hers.  The  touch,  perhaps, 
caused  her  to  open  her  eyes,  and  her  lips  moved. 
Then  her  glance,  roving  and  anguished,  fall  upon  St. 
John.  She  lifted  her  hand  with  a  sudden  spasm  of  life. 


80  A    PASSING     SOUL. 

"  A  priest  ?  "  she  said,  huskily. 

"  Yes,    said  St.  John,  coming  to  her  quietly. 

"Then  all  of  you  go  away — quick — I  want  to 
speak  to  him." 

"  There  is  no  time  to  spare,"  said  the  doctor,  as 
Le  passed  St.  John.  Missy  followed  him,  and  the 
servants  followed  her.  She  closed  the  door  and  waited 
outside. 

The  servants  seemed  to  be  consoled  by  the  presence 
of  a  priest  ;  things  were  taking  the  conventional 
death-bed  turn.  Even  the  doctor  felt  as  if  the  pro 
fessional  atmosphere  were  being  restored  in  a  degree. 
St.  John,  indeed,  had  looked  as  if  he  knew  what  he 
was  about,  and  had  been  calm  in  the  midst  of  the 
agitated  and  uncertain  group,  occupied  himself,  per 
haps,  by  but  one  thought.  Young  as  he  was,  his  sister 
and  the  doctor  and  the  servants  shut  him  into  the 
room  with  a  feeling  of  much  relief-  The  servants 
nodded,  and  went  their  ways  with  apparent  satisfac 
tion.  The  doctor  threw  himself  into  a  chair  in  an  ad 
joining  room,  and  signified  to  Miss  Rothermel  that  he 
would  rest  till  he  was  called.  And  she  herself  knelt 
down  beside  an  open  window  just  outside  the  door,  and 
waited,  and  probably  devoutly  prayed  for  the  passing 
soul  making  her  tardy  count  within. 

She  could  not  but  speculate  upon  the  interview. 
Now  that  the  awful  sense  of  responsibility  was  lifted 
off  her  and  shifted  upon  her  brother's  shoulders,  she 
felt  more  naturally  and  more  humanly.  She  began  to 
wonder  whether  it  had  been  to  ask  her  for  a  priest 
that  the  dying  woman  had  struggled  when  she  first 
saw  her  that  morning.  She  was  almost  sure  it  was, 
for  she  had  clutched  at  St.  John  with  such  eagerness. 


A     PASSING     SOUL.  81 

It  was  probable  she  did  not  know  htm  and  did  not  as 
sociate  him  with  Missy.  His  marked  dress  had  been 
his  passport.  And  Missy  really  did  not  know  Avhat 
her  friend's  creed  was.  It  seemed  probable  she  had 
been  a  Roman  Catholic,  but  had  dropped  her  form  of 
faith  in  holiday  times  of  youth  and  possible  wrong 
doing,  and  had  never  had  grace  to  resume  that,  or  any 
other  in  the  weary  days  of  illness — unprofitable  so 
long  as  they  did  not  threaten  death.  But  now  death 
was  at  the  door,  and  she  had  clutched  at  the  hem  of  a 
priest's  garment.  So,  thought  Missy,  it  is  real  when 
it  comes  to  facts  ;  for  what  fact  so  real  as  death  ? 
Everything  else  seemed  phantom-dim  when  she  thought 
of  that  face  upon  the  pillow,  with  the  wide-open  win 
dow  shedding  all  the  gray  morning's  light  upon  it. 

The  moments  passed  ;  the  still,  dull,  heavy  air 
crept  in  at  the  window  upon  which  Missy  bowed  her 
head  ;  the  leaves  scarcely  stirred  upon  the  trees  that 
stood  up  close  beside  it  ;  a  languid  bird  or  two  twit 
tered  an  occasional  smothered  note.  There  were  few 
household  sounds.  The  servants,  though  released 
from  their  futile  watching,  did  not  resume  their  house 
hold  work.  Missy  smelt  the  evil  odor  of  the  French 
man's  cigar,  and  was  ashamed  to  find  it  vexed  her, 
even  at  such  a  moment  as  this  ;  she  braced  herself  to 
endure  the  "Fillede  Mrne.  Angot,"  if  that  should  fol 
low  in  a  low  whistle  from  under  the  trees.  But  it  did 
not.  The  Frenchman  had  that  much  respect  for  what 
was  going  on  within. 

At  last  !  There  was  a  stir — a  moan,  audible  even 
through  the  door,  and  Missy  started  to  her  feet,  and 
signalled  the  doctor,  who  had  heard  it,  too.  Her 


82  A     PASSING     SOUL. 

brother  openeil  the  door  and  admitted  them.  But 
what  a  ghastly  face  was  his  ;  Missy  started. 

He  turned  back  to  the  bed,  and  kneeling,  read  the 
commendatory  prayer, 

"  Through  the  grave  and  gate  of  death, 
Now  the  faint  soul  travaileth." 

Ah,  God  help  her  ;  it  is  over.  He  has  brought  to 
pass  His  act,  His  strange  act,  and  only  death  lies 
there,  senseless,  dull  death,  corruptible,  animal,  earthy, 
where  but  a  moment  before  a  soul  of  parts  and  pas 
sions,  had  been  chained. 

Missy,  new  to  death-beds,  got  up  from  her  knees 
at  last,  weeping  and  awed,  and,  laying  her  hand  on  her 
brother's,  said,  "  Come  away,  St.  John,  you  look  so 
ill." 

St.  John  arose  and  followed  her,  going  to  the  room 
and  sinking  into  the  chair  lately  occupied  by  the  doc 
tor.  He  looked  ill  indeed,  but  his  sister  could  offer 
him  no  comfort  ;  quiet,  and  to  be  left  alone  was  all  he 
asked  of  her.  At  this  moment  the  doctor  summoned 
iu  consultation  appeared  ;  both  the  professional  men 
went  professionally  into  the  chamber  of  death,  and 
Missy,  clasping  the  inert  hand  of  Gabrielle,  who, 
whimpering,  had  refused  to  go  up  stairs,  went  sorrow 
fully  home  with  the  child,  feeling  that  she  had  no 
more  to  do  in  the  house  of  death  that  day. 

St.  John  came  home  in  an  hour  or  two.  Mr.  An 
drews  had  not  yet  arrived.  Everything  that  could  be 
done  without  him  had,  under  the  direction  of  St.  John 
and  the  doctor,  been  done.  The  house  was  quiet  and 
in  order,  he  said.  It  was  almost  certain  that  Mr.  An- 


A    PASSING     SOUL.  83 

drews  would  arrive  in  the  next  train  ;  the  carriage 
was  waiting  at  the  depot  for  him,  though  no  telegram 
had  come.  St.  John  threw  himself  on  the  sofa,  and 
seemed  again  to  want  quiet,  so  his  sister  left  him,  and 
took  the  children  to  her  own  room.  It  was  so  close  in 
the  house,  and  they  were  so  restless,  that  after  a  while 
she  took  them  out  upon  the  lawn.  There  was  no  sun, 
and  just  a  cool  air,  though  no  breeze,  creeping  in  from 
the  water.  It  was  comparatively  easy  to  amuse  them 
there,  or  rather,  to  let  them  amuse  themselves.  Gabri- 
elle  was  inquisitive  and  fretful,  but  little  Jay  seemed 
to  feel  languid  and  tired  by  the  morning's  heat,  and 
crept  upon  her  lap  at  last  and  went  to  sleep. 

Missy,  sitting  in  the  deep  shade  of  the  trees  near 
the  beech  gate,  soothed  by  the  quiet,  and  worn  with 
the  morning's  excitement,  almost  slept  herself.  She 
had  gone  over  many  times  in  imagination  the  arrival 
of  the  husband,  and  his  first  moment  at  the  bedside  of 
his  dead  wife.  She  felt  sure  all  this  had  now  taken 
place,  though  she  was  too  far  from  the  house  to  hear 
the  arrival  of  the  carriage  from  the  depot.  She  won 
dered  whether  he  would  send  in  for  the  children  at 
once,  or  whether  he  would  be  glad  they  were  away  ; 
or  whether  he  would  think  of  them  at  all.  She  was 
glad  to  remember  she  had  no  duty  in  the  matter,  and 
that  she  did  not  have  to  see  him,  and  it  was  rather  a 
comfort  to  her  to  feel  she  did  not  know  the  exact  mo 
ment  at  which  he  was  going  through  the  terrible  scene, 
and  feeling  the  first  anguish  of  remorse.  She  kissed 
Jay's  tawny  head,  and  with  her  arms  around  him, 
finally  slept,  leaning  back  in  the  great  chair.  Gabri- 
elle  at  first  played  at  her  feet  idly,  then  went  down  to 
the  beach,  and  amused  herself  in  the  sand,  but  it  was 


84  A    PASSING    SOUL. 

hot,  and  she  came  back  to  the  shade,  and,  lying  on  the 
rug  at  Missy's  feet,  slept  too. 

A  small  steam  yacht,  meanwhile,  had  come  into  the 
harbor,  had  put  off  a  small  boat,  which  was  even  now 
landing  a  gentleman  near  the   boat-house  of   the  An 
drews'  place.      The  boat  returned   to  the   yacht  ;  the 
gentleman  set  down  his  bag  on  the  steps  of  the  boat- 
house,   and  looked   around.      All  was  quiet  ;  no  one 
seemed  moving  at  either  of  the  two  houses.     Certainly 
it  was  not  a  day  to  move  if   you  could   help  it.      The 
only  hope  was  that  those  dark  clouds  in  the  west  would 
move,  and  make  some  change  in  the  stagnant  state  of 
things.      The  gentleman   took  off    his   straw  hat  and 
fanned     himself   and     walked    slowly    forward,    then, 
catching  sight  of  the  group  under  the  trees,  with  some 
thing  like  a  smile,  turned  back  and  approached  them. 
He  stood  looking  down  upon  them,  before  any  of  them, 
moved.     Certainly,  a  pretty  enough  group.     Gabrielle 
was   sleeping,  face   forward,  on    her  arms,  a  graceful 
figure,  on  the  dark  rug.    Missy,  with  her  soft,  pretty  hair 
tumbled,  and  a  flush  on  her  cheek,  lay   nearly  at  full 
length  in  the  stretched-out  sleepy  chair,  her  light  dress 
swept  upon  the  grass,  and  exposing  one  small  and  per 
fect  foot  with  a  gossamer  stocking  and  a  darling  high- 
heeled  low-cut  shoe.     And  Jay,  flushed  and  hot,  with 
his  tawny  curls  against  her  breast,  and  one  brown  hand 
in  hers,  lay  across  her  lap  ;  her  other  hand,  very  white 
by  contrast,  holding  the  brown  bare  legsin  a  protecting 
way  ;  some  picture-books,  and  a  broad  hat  or  two  lay 
upon  the  grass  beside  them.     There  was  something  in 
the  sight  that  seemed  to  move  more  than  the  spectator's 
admiration  ;  but  whatever  em  >tion  it  was,  was  quickly 
dispelled,  and  commonplace  greeting  and  pleasure  came 


A    PASSING     SOUL.  85 

back  into  bis  face,  as  Gabrielle,  aroused,  got  up  with  a 
cry  of  : 

"  Wby,  papa  !  where  did  you  come  from  ?  I — I 
guess  I  was  asleep." 

Missy,  with  a  start,  sat  up,  bewildered.  She  had 
been  dreaming,  perhaps,  of  the  scene  in  the  upper  room 
in  the  house  next  door,  which  haunted  her  imagination. 
And  here  she  was,  face  to  face  with  the  man  over 
whose  remorse  she  rather  gloated,  and  it  would  be  diffi 
cult  to  say  how  any  one  could  look  less  remorseful  than 
he  looked  now.  Certainly,  more  genial  and  pleasant 
than  she  had  ever  seen  him  look  before.  She  felt  that 
she  must  have  been  dreaming  all  the  occurrences  of 
the  morning.  Jay  fretted  and  refused  to  wake.  Her 
dress  was  wet  where  his  hot  little  head  had  been  lying  ; 
he  threw  his  arm  up  over  her  neck  and  nestled  back. 

"  I — we — what  train — have  you  just  come  ?"  she 
stammered,  trying  to  know  what  she  was  talking  of, 
and  to  believe  that  there  was  no  dead  face  on  the  pil 
low  up-stairs. 

"  I  did  not  come  on  a  train,  but  in  a  yacht,"  he  an 
swered,  putting  his  arms  around  Gabby's  shoulders, 
and  holding  her  little  hands  in  his.  "  We  started  last 
night.  Some  friends  of  mine  are  on  a  cruise,  and  per 
suaded  me  to  let  them  bring  me  here.  But  an  acci 
dent  to  the  machinery  kept  us  over-night  at  our 
moorings,  and  interminable  arrangements  for  the  cruise 
put  us  back  this  morning.  We  have  had  a  hot  day  of 
it  on  the  Sound,  and  are  just  arrived.  See,  Gabrielle, 
there  goes  the  yacht  out  of  the  mouth  of  the  harbor. 
It  is  a  pity  we  can't  run  up  a  flag  from  the  boat-house  ; 
but  it  is  too  hot  for  exertion,  and  I  suppose  all  the  ser 
vants  are  asleep." 


86  A    PASSING     SOUL. 

"  Then  you  haven't — "  faltered  Missy,  "  you — that 
is — you  have  not  been  to  the  house — " 

"  No,"  said  Mr.  Andrews,  looking  at  her  as  if  he 
did  not  mean  to  be  surprised  at  anything  she  might 
say  or  do.  "No,  I  am  just  on  shore,  and  unexpected 
at  home.  I  hope  you  are  quite  well,  Miss  Rothermel  ;" 
for  Missy  was  turning  very  pale.  "  I  am  afraid  that 
boy  is  too  heavry  for  you  ;  let  me  take  him." 

Missy  was  struggling  to  get  up,  and  Jay  was  fight 
ing  to  keep  his  place,  and  not  to  be  disturbed. 

"Let  me  take  him.  Jay,  be  quiet.  What  do  you 
mean  by  this,  my  boy  ?  Come  to  me  at  once." 

"  No,  oh  no  !"  said  Missy,  regaining  her  feet,  and 
holding  the  boy  in  her  arms.  He  put  his  damp  curls 
down  on  her  shoulder,  and  both  arms  around  her  neck, 
and  with  sleepy,  half-shut,  obstinate  eyes,  looked  down 
upon  the  ground,  and  up  upon  his  father. 

Gabrielle,  seeing  the  situation,  said,  amazed  :  " Dorft 
you  know,  papa?"  and  then  stopped  suddenly,  and 
looked  frightened. 

"  Hu#h,  Gabrielle,"  cried  Missy,  trembling.  For 
Gabby's  heartlessness  would  be  a  cruel  medium  through 
which  to  communicate  the  news. 

"  There  is  some  trouble?"  said  Mr.  Andrews,  quiet 
ly,  looking  from  one  to  the  other.  "  Do  not  be  afraid 
to  tell  me." 

"  Let  us  go  up  to  the  house,"  said  Missy,  hurriedly, 
taking  a  few  steps  forward  with  her  heavy  burden. 
Mr.  Andrews  walked  silently  beside  her,  looking  upon 
the  ground,  with  an  expression  not  very  different  from 
the  one  he  wore  habitually,  though  very  different  from 
the  one  he  had  just  been  wearing.  Gabby  hung  be- 


A    PASSING     SOUL.  87 

hind,  looking  askance  at  the  two  before  her,  with  min 
gled  curiosity  and  apprehension  in  her  face. 

"  You  need  not  be  afraid  to  tell  me,"  he  said,  as 
they  walked  on.  "Has  anything  happened?  I  am 
quite  unprepared,  but  I  had  rather  know.  I  suppose  I 
have  been  telegraphed,  if  I  was  needed — " 

"  I  sent  the  telegrams  to  your  office,"  said  Missy  ; 
"  the  first  one  at  nine  this  morning.  My  brother  sent 
the  last  one.  The  carriage  has  been  at  every  train  all 
day." 

"It  was  a  strange  mischance.  They  did  not  know 
at  the  office  that  I  was  going  home  in  the  yacht." 

"  The  servants  were  so  heedless,  and  they  did  not 
even  send  for  us." 

"  You  forget,  I  do  not  know,"  said  Mr.  Andrews, 
in  a  controlled  voice,  as  she  paused,  in  walking  as  well 
as  in  speaking.  For  her  agitation,  and  the  weight  of 
the  sleeping  child  together,  made  her  tremble  so  that 
she  stopped,  and  leaned  against  a  lindeji  tree  on  the 
lawn,  which  they  were  passing. 

"  Oh,  it  is  hard  that  it  should  come  upon  me,"  cried 
Missy  desperately,  as  she  looked  at  him  with  a  strange 
pair  of  eyes,  leaning  against  the  tree,  very  white  and 
trembling,  and  holding  the  boy  to  her  breast. 

"  Yes ;  it  is  hard,"  said  her  companion,  "  for  I 
know  it  must  be  something  very  painful  to  move  you 
so.  I  will  go  to  my  house  and  learn  about  it  there. 
Come,  Gabrielle  ;  will  you  come  with  me,  child  ?" 

"  Oh,  stay,"  cried  Missy,  as  he  stretched  out  his 
hand  to  the  little  girl,  and  was  going  away  without  her, 
as  she  began  to  cry  and  hang  back,  taking  hold  of 
Missy's  dress.  "It  will  be  hard  to  hear  it  there — from 
servants.  It  is  the  worst  news  any  one  could  hear. 


88  A     PASSING     SOUL. 

How  can  I  tell   you  ?     The  poor  little  children,  they 
are  left — alone — to  you." 

And,  bursting  into  tears,  she  sunk  down  Leside 
Gabrielle  on  the  grass,  and  held  her  and  Jay  in  one 
embrace.  There  was  a  silence  but  for  the  sobs  of 
Gabrielle,  for  Missy's  tears  were  silent  after  the  first 
burst  ;  they  were  raining  now  on  Jay's  head,  and  she 
kissed  his  forehead  again  and  again.  "  I  have  told 
you  very  badly,"  she  said  brokenly,  after  a  moment. 
"  I  hoped  you  would  not  hear  it  all  at  once  ;  but  it  was 
not  my  fault." 

There  was  no  answer,  and  she  went  on.  "  The  ill 
ness  was  so  sudden  and  terrible,  and  there  was  no 
hope,  after  we  knew  of  it.  I  feel  so  dazed  and  tired  I 
hardly  know  what  to  tell  you  of  it.  It  is  several 
hours  since — since  all  was  over.  I  don't  suppose  any 
thing  could  have  been  done  to  make  it  different  ;  but 
it  must  be  so  dreadful  to  you  to  think  you  were  not 
here.  Oh,  I  don't  know  at  all  how  you  can  bear 
it." 

She  looked  up  at  him  as  she  said  this.  He  stood 
perfectly  still  and  upright  before  her,  his  face  paler, 
perhaps,  than  usual,  hard  and  rigid.  But  whether  he 
was  hearing  what  she  said,  and  weighing  it  critically, 
or  whether  he  did  not  hear  or  comprehend,  she  could 
not  tell.  There  was  no  change  of  expression,  no  emo 
tion  in  eye  or  mouth  to  enlighten  her.  She  had,  in 
her  pity  for  him,  and  her  agitation  at  being  the  one  to 
communicate  the  evil  tidings,  forgotten  the  rancor 
that  she  bore  him,  and  the  remorse  that  she  had  wished 
he  might  endure.  These  feelings  began  sharply  to 
awaken,  as  she  glanced  at  him.  She  felt  her  tears  burn 
her  cheeks,  looking  at  his  unmoistened  eyes.  She  put 


A     PASSING     SOUL.  89 

down  Jay  upon  his  feet,  and  disengaging  herself  from 
Gabrielle,  stood  up,  keeping  Jay's  hand   in   hers. 

"My  brother  will  tell  you  all  the  rest,"  she  said, 
slowly  moving  on,  leading  the  children.  Mr.  An 
drews  mechanically  followed  her,  looking  upon  the 
ground.  Missy's  heart  beat  fast ;  she  held  the  chil 
dren  tight  by  the  hand  ;  it  seemed  to  her  that  this  was 
worse  than  all  the  rest.  She  was  not  much  used 
to  tragedy,  and  had  never  had  to  tell  a  man  the  wife 
was  dead,  whom  he  was  expecting  to  meet  within  five 
minutes. 

The  men  and  women  she  had  known  had  loved 
each  other,  and  lived  happily  together,  in  a  measure. 
She  was  new  to  this  sort  of  experience.  She  was  thrill 
ing  with  the  indignation  that  very  young  persons  feel 
when  their  ideal  anything  is  overthrown.  She  was, 
practically,  in  the  matter  of  ideals,  a  very  young  per 
son,  though  she  was  tweniy-se/en. 

They  were  very  near  the  house  now.  A  few  more 
steps  and  they  would  be  at  the  side  door  that  led  into 
the  summer  parlor.  There  was  a  total  silence,  broken 
by  Jay's  whimpering,  "  I  don't  want  to  go  home  with 
papa  ;  I  want  to  stay  with  you  to-night." 

Gabby,  who  didn't  have  any  more  cheerful  recol 
lection  of  home  to-day  than  he,  chimed  in  a  petition 
to  stay.  She  thought  she  would  rather  look  over  aunt 
Harriet's  boxes,  and  be  a  little  scolded,  than  go  home 
to  the  ejaculations  and  whisperings  of  the  servants, 
and  have  to  pass  That  Room.  This  was  about  the 
depth  of  her  grief  ;  but  she  whimpered  and  wanted 
to  stay.  When  they  reached  the  steps  that  led  up  to 
the  door,  Missy  paused  and  turned  to  Mr.  Andrews, 
who  was  just  behind  her. 


90  A    PASSING     SOUL. 

"  Shall  I  keep  the  children?"  she  said,  facing  him, 
her  cheeks  flushed,  a  child  grasping  each  hand. 

"  Yes — if  you  will — if  you  will  be  so  kind,"  he  said. 
She  had  hoped  his  voice  would  be  shaken,  would  show 
agitation.  But  it  did  not.  It  was  rather  low,  but  per 
fectly  controlled,  and  he  knew  what  he  was  saying. 
He  "  remembered  his  manners."  He  was  recollected 
enough  to  be  polite  ;  "if  you  will  be  so  kind." 

"  Corne  then,  children,"  she  said,  trembling  all  over, 
voice  included,  as  she  Went  up  the  steps.  He  walked 
away  without  any  further  speech.  Leaving  the  chil 
dren  in  the  summer-parlor,  she  ran  through  the  house 
to  one  of  the  front  windows,  and  pushing  open  a  little 
the  blind,  sat  down  palpitating  and  watched  him  going 
down  to  the  gate.  He  walked  slowly,  but  his  step  was 
steady.  lie  followed  the  road,  and  did  not  walk  across 
the  grass,  like  a  man  who  does  not  think  what  he  is 
doing.  When  he  reached  the  gate,  he  did  not  turn  to 
the  right  towards  his  own  house,  to  the  gate  of  which 
a  few  steps  more  would  have  brought  him,  but  he 
walked  up  the  road,  with  his  head  down,  as  if  pondering 
something.  Presently,  however,  he  turned  and  came 
back,  passed  the  Varians'  gate,  and  went  on  into  his 
own.  And  then  Missy  lost  sight  of  him  among  the 
trees  that  stood  between  the  two  houses.  She  threw  her 
self  upon  a  sofa,  and  pressed  her  hands  before- her  eyes, 
as  she  thought  of  that  broken,  pain-strained  figure, 
rigid  on  the  bed  up-stairs.  And  if  he  did  not  cry  for 
his  coldness  and  cruelty,  she  did,  till  her  head  and  her 
eyes  ached 

That  night,  after  Missy  had  put  the  children  to  bed 
iu  her  own  room,  as  she  went  down  stairs,  she  heard  St. 


A    PASSING     SOUL.  91 

John  sending  a  servant  in  to  ask  Mr.  Andrews  if  he 
would  see  him  for  a  few  moments. 

"St.  John,"  she  exclaimed,  in  a  low  voice,  joining 
him.  "  Why  do  you  send  in  ?  It  is  his  place  to  send 
for  you.  I  would  not  do  it,  really.  I — I  hate  the  man. 
I  told  him  you  would  tell  him  everything,  and  he  has 
been  here  four  hours  at  least,  and  has  newer  sent  for  you. 
I  don't  believe  he  wants  to  hear  anything.  I  have  no 
doubt  he  has  had  a  good  dinner  and  is  reading  the  pa 
per.  May  be  he  will  ask  you  to  join  him  with  a  cigar." 

"  Don't  be  uncharitable,  Missy,"  said  her  brother, 
walking  up  and  down  the  room. 

"  But  why  do  you  send  ?"  persisted  his  sister.  "  He 
doesn't  want  to  see  you,  or  he  would  have  sent." 

"But  I  want  to  see  him.  So,  Missy,  don't  let  us 
talk  about  it  any  more." 

It  was  evident  to  his  sister  that  St.  John  did  not 
anticipate  the  meeting  with  much  pleasure.  He  was  a 
little  restless,  for  him,  till  the  servant  came  back  with 
a  message,  to  the  effect  that  Mr.  Andrews  would  be 
very  glad  to  see  Mr.  Varian  at  once,  if  he  were  at  lib 
erty  to  come.  St.  John  looked  rather  pale  as  he  kissed 
his  sister  good-night  (for  he  was  not  coming  back,  but 
going  directly  home  to  the  rectory),  and  she  felt  that 
his  hand  was  cold. 

"  He  is  young  for  snch  experiences,"  she  said  to  her 
mother,  as  she  sat  down  beside  her  sofa  in  the  summer 
twilight. 

"  He  doesn't  seem  young  to  me  any  longer,"  re 
turned  her  mother. 

"  A  few  days  such  as  this  would  make  us  all  old," 
said  Missy,  with  a  sigh,  leaning  her  face  clown  on  her 
mother's  arm.  "  Mamma,  I  am  sure  this  interview  is 


92  A    PASSING     SOUL. 

very  painful  to  St.  John.  I  am  sure  he  lias  been 
charged  with  something  to  say  to  her  husband,  by  that 
poor  soul.  How  I  wish  it  weren't  wrong  to  ask  him 
what  it  was.  But," — with  a  sigh — "  I  suppose  we  shall 
never  know." 

"  Never,  Missy.  But  we  can  be  charitable.  And 
when  you  are  my  age,  my  child,  you  will  be  afraid  to 
judge  any  one,  and  will  distrust  the  sight  of  your  own 
eyes." 

At  this  moment  Miss  Varian  came  lumbering  into 
the  room,  leaning  on  the  arm  of  Goneril. 

"I  suppose,"  she  said,  not  hearing  the  low  voices, 
"that  Missy  is  at  her  nursery  duties  yet.  Are  you 
here,  Dorla  ?  I  should  think  she  might  remember  that 
you  might  sometimes  be  a  little-  lonely,  while  she  is 
busy  in  her  new  vocation." 

Missy  scorned  to  answer,  but  her  mother  said  pleas 
antly  :  "  Oh,  she  is  here  ;  her  babies  have  been  asleep 
some  lime." 

"  I'm  not  surprised.  I  don't  believe  Gabby's  grief 
has  kept  her  awake.  That  child  has  a  heart  like  a 
pebble,  small  and  hard.  As  to  little  Jay,  he  has  the 
constitution  and  the  endowments  of  a  rat  terrier,  noth 
ing  beyond.  I  don't  believe  he  ever  will  amount  to 
anything  more  than  a  good,  sturdy  little  animal." 

"lie  will  amount  to  a  big  animal,  I  suppose,  if  he 
lives  long  enough,"  said  Missy,  with  a  sharp  intonation 
of  contempt. 

"  Well,  not  very,  if  he  copies  his  father.  Gabby 
has  all  the  cleverness.  I  should  call  Jay  a  dull  child,  as 
far  as  I  can  judge  ;  dull  of  intellect,  but  so  strong  and 
well  that  it  gives  him  a  certain  force." 

"  Aunt  Harriet  !  "  cried  Missy,  impatiently,  "can't 


A    PASSING     SOUL.  93 

you  leave  even  children  alone?  What  have  those  poor 
little  morsels  done  to  you,  that  you  should  defame 
them  so?" 

"  Done  ?  Oh,  nothing,  but  waked  me  up  from  my 
nap  this  afternoon.  And,  you  know,  deprived  me  and 
your  mother  of  much  of  your  soothing  society  for  the 
past  two  months." 

"  I  haven't  begrudged  Missy  to  them,"  said  her 
mother,  affectionately,  drawing  Missy's  hand  around 
her  neck  in  the  dimness.  "I  think  the  poor  little 
things  have  needed  a  friend  for  a  long  while,  and,  alas, 
they  need  one  now." 

"  It's  my  impression  they're  no  worse  off  to-day 
than  they  were  yesterday.  There  is  such  a  thing  as 
gaining  by  a  loss." 

Mrs.  Varian  put  her  hand  over  Missy's  mouth  ; 
Miss  Varian,  annoyed  by  not  being  answered,  went  on 
with  added  sharpness  : 

"  Goneril  says  the  servants  tell  her  all  sorts  of 
stories  about  the  state  of  things  between  master  and 
mistress  in  the  house  next  door.  I  am  afraid  the  poor 
man  isn't  to  blame  for  snubbing  her  as  he  has  done. 
They  say  she — " 

"  Oh,  my  dear  Harriet,"  said  Mrs.  Varian,  keeping 
her  hand  on  Missy's  lips,  "  don't  you  think  it  is  a  pity 
to  be  influenced  by  servants.  It  is  difficult  enough 
to  tell  the  truth  ourselves,  and  keep  it  intact  when  it 
goes  through  many  hands  ;  and  I  don't  think  that  the 
ill-educated  and  often  unprincipled  people  who  serve 
us,  are  able  at  all  to  judge  of  character,  and  to  convey 
facts  correctly  ;  do  you  ?  I  don't  doubt  two-thirds  of 
the  gossip  among  our  servants  is  without  foundation. 
Imagine  Goneril  describing  an  interview  between  us  ; 


94  MISRULE. 

to  begin  with,  she  would  scarcely  understand  what  we 
said,  if  we  talked  of  anything  but  the  most  common 
place  things.  She  would  think  we  quarreled,  if  we 
differed  about  the  characters  in  a  novel." 

"Goneril  !  She  would  not  only  misunderstand,  but 
she  would  misstate  with  premeditation  and  malice. 
That  woman — "  And  on  that  perennial  grievance, 
the  lady's  wrath  was  turned,  as  her  sister-in-law 
meant  it  should  be,  and  Missy's  feelings  were  spared. 
She  kissed  her  mother's  hand  secretly,  and  whispered 
"thank  you." 


CHAPTER  VII. 
MISRULE. 

RS.  ANDREWS  died  late  in  August.  Late 
in  September,  one  afternoon,  Missy  walked 
up  and  down  at  the  foot  of  the  lawn,  and 
pondered  deeply  on  the  state  of  things. 
That  anything  could  go  on  worse  than  things  went  on 
in  the  house  next  door,  she  felt  to  be  improbable. 
That  any  children  could  be  more  neglected,  more 
fretted,  more  injudiciously  treated,  she  knew  to  be  im 
possible.  She  did  not  mind  it  much  that  the  servants 
plundered  their  master,  and  that  waste  and  extrava 
gance  went  on  most  merrily.  But  that  her  poor  Jay 
should  be  reduced  indeed  to  the  level  of  a  rat  terrier, 
by  the  alternate  coaxing  and  thwarting  of  the  low 
creatures  who  had  him  in  charge,  was  matter  of  differ- 


MISRULE.  95 

ent  moment.  It  was  very  bad  for  G.xbrielle,  of  course. 
But  Gabrielle  was  not  Jay,  and  that  made  all  the  dif 
ference.  Still,  even  to  save  Gabrielle,  Missy  would 
have  made  a  good  fight,  if  she  had  known  what  way 
to  go  to  work.  The  children  were  with  her  as  much 
as  ever  ;  at  least  Jay  was.  Gabrielle  was  a  little  more 
restless  under  restraint,  and  a  good  deal  more  un 
fathomable  than  a  month  ago.  She  was  intimate  with 
one  of  the  maids,  and  the  Frenchman  was  in  love  with 
this  maid,  and  petted  and  joked  with  Gabrielle,  who 
seemed  to  carry  messages  between  them,  and  to  be 
much  interested  in  their  affairs.  She  was  more  con 
tented  at  home,  and  less  often  came  to  look  over  Aunt 
Harriet's  boxes  of  treasures  and  to  be  catechised  by 
her  as  a  return. 

As  to  Jay,  he  was  passionate  and  stubborn,  and 
Missy's  heart  was  broken  by  a  fib  he  had  just  told  her. 
The  father  came  home  at  night,  and  always,  she 
believed,  asked  for  the  children,  and  when  they  could 
be  found,  and  made  superficially  respectable,  they  were 
brought  to  the  table  for  a  little  while.  But  Jay  fell 
asleep  sometimes,  with  his  head  on  the  table-cloth, 
overcome  with  the  long  day's  play.  And  Gabby,  after 
she  had  got  a  little  money  out  of  his  pocket,  and  a  little 
dessert  off  his  plate,  preferred  the  society  of  the 
servants,  and  went  away  to  them.  In  the  morning, 
they  rarely  breakfasted  with  him.  They  were  some 
times  not  up,  and  never  dressed  in  time  for  that  early 
meal.  They  took  their  meals  before  or  after  the  ser 
vants,  as  those  dignitaries  found  most  convenient. 
Once,  poor  Jay  wandered  in  hungry  and  cross  at  nine 
o'clock,  and  told  Missy  he  had  had  nothing  to  eat,  and 
that  Gabby  was  dancing  for  the  servants  in  the  kitchen, 


96  MISRULE. 

while  they  ate  their  breakfast.  They  made  such  a 
noise,  Jay  said,  they  made  his  head  ache,  and  he 
acknowledged  to  kicking  one  of  the  women  who 
wouldn't  go  and  get  him  his  breakfast,  and  being  put  out 
from  the  festive  scene  in  disgrace.  He  ate  muffins 
and  omelette  ou  Missy's  lap,  that  morning,  but  it  did 
not  probably  make  the  other  mornings  any  better. 
No  one  could  advise  anything.  Mrs.  Varian  could  see 
no  way  out  of  it,  and  painful  as  it  was,  could  suggest 
nothing  but  patience.  It  was  manifestly  not  their 
business  to  offer  any  interference.  St.  John,  his  sister 
appealed  to  in  vain.  Except  the  interview  on  the 
evening  of  the. wife's  death,  and  the  few  moments' 
preceding  the  funeral  services,  there  had  been  no 
communication  between  them.  St.  John  had  called, 
but  Mr.  Andrews  had  been  away  from  the  house  at 
the  moment.  On  Sundays,  he  did  not  go  to  church — 
on  week  days,  he  was  in  the  city.  St.  John  told  his 
sister,  very  truly,  it  would  be  impertinence  to  force 
himself  upon  a  person  so  nearly  a  stranger,  and  she 
quite  agreed  with  hinu  But  Jay  ! 

"  Why  isn't  he  my  child,  and  why  can't  I  snatch 
him  up  and  run  away  with  him,"  she  cried,  tossing  a 
handful  of  pebbles  into  the  water  and  wrapping  her 
cloak  closer  around  her  as  she  walked  away  from  the 
beach-gate.  She  could  not  understand  eloping  with  a 
man,  but  with  her  tawny-haired  mannikin  she  could 
have  consented  to  fly,  she  felt. 

It  was  a  high  September  tide  ;  the  water  was  lap 
ping  against  the  wall,  the  sky  was  blue,  the  wind  was 
fresh.  It  was  not  yet  sunset  ;  she  suspected  there 
were  visitors  in  the  house  ;  a  carriage  had  driven  up  to 
the  stable,  from  which  she  turned  away  her  head,  and 


MISRULE.  97 

which  she  resolved  not  to  recognize.  Hastily  follow 
ing  a  path  that  led  up  to  the  little  wooded  eminence 
that  skirted  the  shore,  she  concealed  her  inhospitable 
thoughts  and  was  out  of  sight  of  the  house.  "  I  don't 
really  know  who  they  were,"  she  said  to  herself,  when 
she  was  safe  in  the  thicket.  "So  many  people  have 
bay  horses,  and  I  did  not  see  the  coachman.  And 
how  could  I  waste  this  glorious  afternoon  in  the 
house  ?  They  will  amuse  Aunt  Harriet,  and  I  could 
not  be  with  mamma  if  I  were  entertaining  them.  I 
am  quite  right  in  making  my  escape." 

The  little  path  was  narrow  and  close  ;  the  thicket 
almost  met  above  her  head.  It  was  very  still  in  there  ; 
the  wind  could  not  get  in,  and  only  the  sound  of  the 
waves,  washing  on  the  shore  below,  could. 

"  Where,  through  groves  deep  and  high, 

Sounds  the  far  billow, 
Where  early  violets  die 
Under  the  willow — " 

she  sang  in  a  low  voice,  as  from  a  little  child  she  had 
always  sung,  or  thought,  as  she  passed  along  this 
tangled  path.  To  be  sure,  it  had  the  disadvantage  of 
being  a  low  thicket  of  cedars,  instead  of  a  grove  deep 
and  high.  And  the  far  billow  was  a  near  wave,  and  a 
small  one  at  that.  But  she  had  always  had  to  trans 
late  her  romance  into  the  vernacular.  She  had  grown 
up  in  tame,  pastoral  green  ways,  in  a  home  outwardly 
and  inwardly  peaceful  and  unmarked  ;  and  her  young 
enthusiasms  had  had  to  fit  themselves  to  her  surround 
ings,  or  she  should  have  been  discontented  with  them. 
A  good  deal  of  imagination  helped  her  in  this.  She 
loved  the  scenes  for  their  own  sakes,  and  for  the  sake 


93  MISRULE. 

of  all  the  romance  with  which  they  were  interwoven. 
A  sense  of  humor  even  did  not  interfere.  She  laughed 
at  herself  as  she  grew  older  ;  but  she  loved  the  places 
just  as  well,  and  went  on  calling  them  by  their  ficti 
tious  names. 

Clouds  of  Michaelmas  daisies  bordered  the  path  ; 
purple  asters  crowded  up  among  the  dead  leaves  and 
underbrush.  She  liked  them  all  ;  and  the  dear  old 
path  seemed  sweeter  and  more  sheltered  to  her  than 
ever.  Still,  she  felt  a  care  and  an  oppression  unusual 
to  her  ;  she  could  not  forget  little  Jay,  who  was  almost 
always  at  her  side  when  she  walked  here.  She  crossed 
the  little  bridge,  that  spanned  what  had  been  a  "  ra 
vine  "to  her  in  younger  days;  and  climbing  up  the 
hill,  stopped  on  the  top  of  a  sandy  cliff,  crowned  with 
a  few  cedars  and  much  underbrush  Here  was  the 
blue  bay  spread  out  before  her  ;  the  neck  of  land  and 
the  island  that  closed  in  the  bay  were  all  in  bright 
autumn  yellow  and  red.  Sweet  fern  and  bayberry 
made  the  air  odorous  ;  the  little  purplish  berries  on 
the  cedars  even  gave  out  their  faint  tribute  of  smell 
in  the  clear,  pure  air.  There  was  a  seat  in  the  low 
branch  of  a  cedar,  just  on  the  edge  of  the  bank.  Here 
she  sat  down  and  tossed  pebbles  down  the  sandy  steep, 
and  thought  of  the  perplexing  question — how  to  rescue 
Jay  ;  and  Gabby,  too,  in  parenthesis.  Gabby  was 
always  in  parenthesis,  but  she  was  not  quite  forgotten. 

Presently,  on  the  still  autumn  atmosphere  came  the 
faint  smell  of  a  cigar.  At  the  same  moment,  the  crash 
ing  of  a  man's  tread  among  the  dry  underbrush,  in 
the  opposite  direction  from  whence  she  had  herself 
come.  Before  she  had  time  to  speculate  on  the  sub 
ject,  Mr.  Andrews  stood  before  her,  coming  abruptly 


MISRULE.  99 

out  of  the  thicket.  He  was  as  much  surprised  as  she, 
and  perhaps  no  better  pleased.  It  was  impossible  for 
either  to  be  unconscious  of  the  last  interview  they  had 
had  just  one  month  ago.  Mr.  Andrews'  complexion 
grew  a  little  darker,  which  was  an  indication  that  he 
was  embarrassed,  perhaps  to  find  he  was  on  the  Vari- 
an's  land  ;  perhaps  that  he  was  confronting  a  young 
woman  who  did  not  approve  of  him  ;  perhaps  that  he 
was  confronting  any  young  woman  at  all.  Who  knows 
— these  middle-aged  men  with  thick  skins  may  have 
sensibilities  of  which  no  one  dreams,  and  of  which  no 
one  is  desired  to  dream. 

Miss  Rolhermel's  ordinarily  colorless  cheeks  were 
quite  in  a  flame.  She  half  rose  from  her  cedar  seat, 
and  then  irresolutely  sat  down  again.  Mr.  Andrews 
threw  away  his  cigar  down  the  sand  bank,  and  without 
looking  irresolute,  possibly  felt  so,  as  he  paused  beside 
her.  Her  first  word  sealed  him  in  his  resolution  not  to 
raise  his  hat  and  pass  on,  as  he  would  have  done  in  an 
ordinary  place.  It  was  quite  in  character  for  her  to 
speak  first. 

"I  didn't  know  you  were  in  the  country  to-day," 
she  said  with  embarrassment.  "  You  do  not  stay  up 
very  often,  do  you  ?" 

Then  she  thought  she  couldn't  possibly  have  chosen 
a  remark  more  personal  and  unwise.  She  did  not  like 
him  to  think  she  knew  his  habits,  and  speculated  about 
them.  But  here,  she  had  told  him  the  first  thing. 

"No,"  he  said,  "  I  do  not  stay  up  very  often.  I 
came  home  to-day  in  the  noon  train  to  give  the  chil 
dren  a  drive  this  afternoon  ;  but  I  found  when  I 
reached  home,  that  they  had  gone  off  with  the  sor- 


100  MISRULE. 

vants   on    a   picnic.     Perhaps  you  knew  about  it  ?     I 
own  I  was  surprised." 

"  No,"  said  Missy,  flushing  more  deeply,  "  I  did 
not  know  anything  about  it,  till  they  had  gone  away, 
and  I  disapproved  it  very  much  ;  not  that  I  have  any 
right  to  approve  or  disapprove  ;  but  lam  very  fond  of 
Jay — and — and — oh,  Mr.  Andrews,  I  wonder  if  you 
would  think  it  unpardonable  if  I  said  something  to 
you  !" 

Mr.  Andrews  may  have  doubted  whether  lie  should 
think  what  she  had  to  say  very  agreeable  ;  but  he  was 
too  gentlemanly  to  intimate  it.  She  looked  so  eager 
and  interested,  and  it  was  all  about  his  boy.  So  lie 
said  indefinitely,  that  she  was  only  too  good  to  the 
children,  and  it  was  impossible  for  him  to  think  any 
thing  she  said  unpardonable. 

Missy,  with  an  underlying  conviction  that  she  was 
doing  the  precise  thing  that  she  had  made  up  her  mind 
not  to  do — rushed  on  with  a  hurried  statement  of  the 
picnic  facts  ;  how  Gabby  had  known  the  plan  foriwoor 
three  days,  and  had  closely  guarded  the  secret  ;  how 
provisions  had  been  put  over  night  in  the  sail-boat, 
and  the  champagne  carried  down  in  the  early  dawn  ; 
and  how  dear  little  Jay,  carried  away  by  the  tide  of 
excitement,  and  tutored  by  the  infamous  rnaids,  had 
actually  told  her  a  falsehood,  and  explained  to  her  the 
night  before  that  she  need  not  look  for  him  in  the 
morning,  for  he  should  be  in  town  all  day  with  his 
papa,  who  was  going  to  take  him  to  the  dentist.  Mr. 
Andrews  uttered  an  exclamation  at  this  last  statement, 
and  ground  his  cane  into  the  ground  at  the  root  of 
the  cedar-tree.  "Poor little  Jay,"  said  Missy,  looking 
ready  to  cry.  "  Think  what  a  course  of  evil  he  must 


MISRULE.  101 

have  been  put  through  to  have  been  induced  to  say  that. 
Gabrielle  I  am  not  surprised  at.  She  isn't  truthful. 
It  doesn't  seem  to  be  her  nature.  I — I — didn't  mean 
to  say  that  exactly." 

"  You  needn't  mind,"  said  her  companion,  bitterly. 
"  I  am  afraid  it  is  the  truth." 

"But  Jay,"  said  Missy,  hurriedly,  "is  so  sweet- 
natured,  and  so  clear  and  honest,  I  can't  think  how 
they  could  have  made  him  do  it.  It  only  shows  me 
how  dreadful  his  temptations  are,  and  how  much  he 
must  go  through  when  he  is  at  home." 

"  I  don't  see  how  it  can  be  helped,"  said  the  father 
with  a  sort  of  groan.  "  I  can't  be  with  them  all  the 
time  ;  and  if  I  were  perhaps  I  shouldn't  mend  the 
matter.  I  suppose  they  must  take  their  chance  like 
others." 

"  Very  well,  if  you  are  satisfied,"  she  said  stiffly. 

"  But  I  am  not  satisfied,"  he  answered.  "  I  should 
think  I  needn't  assure  you  of  that.  But  I  feel  helpless, 
and  I  don't  know  what  to  do.  I  don't  want  to  part 
with  the  children  just  yet,  you  can  understand  that,  no 
doubt.  And  yet  I  don't  see  what  arrangement  I  can 
make  to  improve  their  condition  at  home.  You  must 
see  it  is  perplexing." 

"Will  you  let  me  tell  you  what  to  do,"  cried  Missy, 
eagerly,  twisting  her  fingers  together  as  she  spoke. 

"  Gladly,"  he  returned,  looking  down  at  her. 

"  Turn  away  every  servant  in  your  house."  He 
looked  blank  and  dismayed. 

"  They  are  as  bad  a  lot  as  ever  were  brought  to 
gether,"  she  said.  "  They  are  neither  honest  nor  truth 
ful,  nor  in  any  sense  respectable.  There  is  not  one  of 
them  that  is  worth  trying  to  reform.  I  don't  wonder 


102  MISRULE. 

you  are  dismayed  at  the  thought  of  change.  Men  do 
not  know  anything  about  such  things,  naturally  ;  take 
my  word  for  it,  you  cannot  keep  them  without  danger 
to  your  property,  let  alone  your  children." 

"  Are  they  worse  than  servants  generally  ?"  he 
said,  helplessly.  "  I  thought  they  were  always  dishon 
est  ;  mine  have  always  been  ever  since  I  have  had  a 
household." 

"  And  we,"  said  Missy,  "have  never  had  a  dishonest 
servant  in  our  house  a  week." 

"You  have  been  very  fortunate  then." 

"No,"  she  said  ;  "only  we  have  had  common  pru 
dence,  and  have  looked  after  them  a  little." 

"  Well,"  said  Mr.  Andrews,  drawing  a  deep  breath, 
"if  I  knew  how  to  go  to  work,  I  would  get  rid  of  them 
all.  But  I  don't  really  know  anything  about  these 
matters." 

"  If  it  were  in  your  business,  you  would  know  how 
to  get  rid  of  a  dishonest  clerk,  I  suppose." 

"  Oh,  yes,  that  is  a  different  matter.  I  could  easily 
deal  with  the  men  in  this  case.  But  the  women — well, 
really,  you  see  it  is  uncomfortable.  And  I  don't  know 
how  to  get  rid  of  them,  or  where  to  get  any  better  if 
I  do." 

"  Oh,  that  could  be  easily  managed." 

"Could  it?"  he  said,  earnestly.  "Believe  me,  I 
would  do  anything  to — to — render  the  fate  of  my 
children  less  unfortunate." 

There  was  a  touch  of  feeling  in  his  voice  that  soft 
ened  Missy. 

"I  wish  you  would  be  resolute  about  this  then,  and 
make  the  change  at  once.  I  could — mamma  could  tell 
you,  perhaps,  of  good  servants,  and  how  to  manage. 


MISRULE.  103 

Believe  me,  it  isn't  so  hard  sending  off  servants  and 
getting  new  ones.  I  wish  you  were  as  angry  with 
these  as  I  am.  You  would  not  find  it  hard." 

Mr.  Andrews  smiled  a  little,  but  it  was  faintly,  and 
he  looked  perplexed. 

"  If  I  only  knew  what  to  do,"  he  said  again.  "If 
you  will  tell  me  the  way,  I  will  walk  in  it." 

"  Well,  in  the  first  place,"  said  Missy,  nothing  loth, 
"I  would  take  the  horses  at  once  and  drive  over  to 
Eel  Creek,  where  I  understand  the  picnic  party  are, 
and  capture  the  children — they  may  not  get  home  till 
midnight,  for  you  see  the  wind  is  against  them,  and 
these  men  know  nothing  about  sailing.  No  doubt  they 
meant  to  be  home  long  before  this  time,  starting  so 
early,  but  they  are  not  in  sight.  I  have  been  watch 
ing  for  them.  Then  bring  the  children  to  our  house  ; 
we  will  take  care  of  them  till  matters  are  settled. 
Then,  you  know,  when  the  servants  get  home,  after 
being  detected  in  such  a  scrape  as  this,  they  can  ex 
pect  nothing  but  to  be  dismissed.  I  am  sure  they 
would  be  much  surprised  at  any  other  ending  of  the 
adventure,  and  they  will  take  it  very  quietly." 

"  Oh,  I'm  not  afraid  of  them,  I  believe,"  said  Mr. 
Andrews,  with  a  smile.  "  Only  I  don't  exactly  know 
how  to  go  about  it.  What  have  they  done  ?  What 
shall  I  say  to  them?  Is  going  on  a  picnic  without 
permission  sufficient  ground  to  dismiss  them  all  at 
once  ?" 

"  The  champagne  is,  and  the  claret — and  the  chick 
ens — and  the  deceit — and  the  children — and  the  sail 
boat  !"  exclaimed  Missy,  rather  incoherently. 

"I  suppose  you  are  right,"  said  Mr.  Andrews,  with 


104  MISRULE. 

a  sigh.  "  They  may  well  be  glad  to  get  off  without 
any  trouble." 

"  They  may  indeed.  And  if  you  call  them  together 
to-night,  and  speak  severely  to  them,  and  tell  them  to 
pack  their  trunks  and  leave  by  the  noon  train  to-mor 
row,  they  will  think  they  have  got  off  very  easily." 

"But  what  shall  we  do  after  they  are  gone  ?"  asked 
Mr.  Andrews,  despondently. 

"Oh,  that  is  easy  enough  !"  cried  Missy,  starting 
up  and  taking  the  path  back  to  the  house,  her  com 
panion  following  her.  "Mamma  and  I  will  take  care 
of  the  children  for  a  few  days,  till  you  are  all  settled. 
And  there  is  an  old  servant  of  ours  living  in  the  vil 
lage,  who  will  go  to  you  and  take  charge  of  things  till 
you  get  your  servants.  She  is  quite  capable — cooks 
well,  and  will  do  everything  you  need  for  a  little 
while  ;  and  it  is  easy  enough  to  get  a  man  to  look  after 
the  horses  for  a  day  or  two,  till  you  are  suited  with  a 
coachman.  One  of  the  Rogers  boys  would  do  very 
well  ;  they  are  honest,  good  people,  all  of  them,  and 
need  work  just  now.  They  understand  horses  thor 
oughly  ;  we  had  Tom  ourselves  for  awhile.  You 
needn't  be  afraid  of  them." 

"  They  couldn't  possibly  be  worse  than  Michael. 
I  am  sure  I  don't  know  how  to  thank  you  enough. 
The  way  really  looks  quite  easy.  But  how  about  the 
new  women  ?  where  am  I  to  look  for  them  ?" 

"Well,  it  depends,"  said  Missy,  "on  what  sort  of 
service  you  want.  Now,  to  be  frank  with  you,  Mr. 
Andrews,  you  have  just  twice  as  many  servants  as  you 
need.  But  maybe  you  like  to  have  a  great  many  ; 
some  people  do.  I  don't,  you  know.  I  can't  bear  to 
have  a  servant  in  the  house  who  has  no  raison  d'etre. 


MISRULE.  106 

Plalf  your  servants  have  no  reasonable  excuse  for  being 
in  your  bouse,  except  that  they  want  your  money." 

"I  always  wondered,"  said  Mr.  Andrews,  humbly, 
"  why  we  needed  so  many  ;  but  there  seemed  no 
way  of  being  comfortable  with  less." 

"  You  see  it  is  a  small  house,"  said  Missy  ;  "  the 
work  of  keeping  it  in  order  is  not  great.  And  in  win 
ter — but  I  don't  suppose  you  mean  to  stay  in  winter?" 

"Yes,  I  mean  to  stay  this  winter.  I  think  no  place 
could  be  better  for  the  children,  if  I  can  get  the  prop 
er  people  to  take  care  of  them." 

"  Well,  then  you  want  to  get — first,  a  cook.  I 
don't  suppose  you'll  have  much  company  ?" 

"None,  probably." 

"  Then  you  do  not  want  a  very  pretentious  one. 
A  good  plain  cook — unless  you  want  a  great  many 
entrees  and  great  variety." 

"  Oil,  as  to  that,  I  am  thankful  if  I  get  three 
courses.  The  present  cook  began  bravely,  but  has 
been  cutting  me  down  steadily.  Yesterday  we  had  no 
soup,  and  the  day  before,  boiled  rice  and  raisins  for 
dessert." 

"Oh,"  exclaimed  Missy,  indignantly,  "  that  is  an 
outrage,  indeed  !  Well,  I  think  if  you  could  be  pa 
tient  under  that,  you  could  get  along  with  a  plain 
cook." 

"  Why  must  she  be  a  plain  cook  ?" 

"Because,"  said  Missy,  artlessly,  "  if  she  is  a  plain 
cook  and  doesn't  understand  entrees  and  all  that,  she 
will  help  in  the  washing,  and  it  would  be  such  a  bless 
ing  if  you  did  not  have  to  have  a  fourth  woman  in  the 
house." 

5* 


106  MISRULE. 

Mr.  Andrews  looked  bewildered,  as  he  opened  the 
gate  for  her  to  pass  out. 

"You  see,"  said  Missy,  apologetically,  "-it  is  such  a 
silly  thing  to  have  servants  that  you  don't  need.  They 
are  in  each  other's  way  in  a  small  house.  You  need  a 
good  plain  cook,  and  a  waitress,  and  let  these  two  do 
the  washing  and  ironing.  And  then  you  need  a  nurse, 
or  a  nursery  governess,  a  quiet,  nice  person,  who  will 
do  everything  for  the  children,  including  their  mend 
ing.  And  then  you  need  a  coachman.  And — well,  of 
course  you'll  know  whether  it  will  be  comfortable  or 
not  when  you've  tried  it  for  a  few  weeks.  But  I  am 
quite  sure  you  will  not  lack  anything  that  you  have 
now,  except  disorder." 

"I  am  sure  of  it,"  said  Mr.  Andrews,  submissively. 

''The  most  important  of  all,"  said  Missy,  as  they 
crossed  the  lawn,  "  is  the  nurse — and  I  think  1  know 
the  very  person.  I  must  ask  mamma  if  she  does  not 
think  she  would  do  very  well.  She  lives  a  mile  or  two 
out  of  the  village  ;  is  a  well  brought  up,  well-educated 
girl,  quite  used  to  work,  and  yet  quite  capable  of  teach 
ing.  She  has  such  a  quiet,  steady  manner.  I  think 
her  influence  over  the  children  would  be  so  good.  She 
manages  her  own  little  brothers  and  sisters  well,  I  have 
noticed.  Besides,  she  would  probably  come  to  you  for 
very  little  more  than  the  wages  of  an  ordinary 
servant." 

Missy  colored  after  she  said  this.  It  seemed  quite 
absurd  for  her  to  be  economizing  for  her  neighbor  ;  but 
it  was  quite  an  involuntary  action  of  her  thrifty  mind. 

" I  beg  your  pardon,"  she  said,  confusedly.  "It 
seems  very  officious,  but  you  know  I  can't  help  think 
ing  it  is  a  pity  to  spend  money  without  thought. 


MISRULE.  107 

Mamma  laughs  at  mo,  but  I  can't  help  feeling  annoyed 
at  seeing  a  great  deal  spent  to  save  the  trouble  of  a 
little  thought.  That  is  why  people  go  on  multiplying 
servants,  and  paying  whatever  may  be  asked  for  wages, 
because  they  do  not  want  to  give  themselves  the  trouble 
of  thinking  and  planning  about  it." 

"  I  think  you  are  quite  right,"  said  Mr.  Andrews. 
"And  I  beg  you  will  not  imagine  that  my  household 
extravagances  are  with  intention.  I  have  always  re 
gretted  that  I  could  not  have  things  managed  differ 
ently,  but  I  could  not  find  a  way  to  do  it." 

This  was  dangerous  ground,  and  Missy  wished  her 
self  off  it,  particularly  as  it  was  humbling  to  find  her 
self  on  such  familiar,  counsel-giving  terms  with  this 
brutal  husband  ;  but,  in  truth,  she  had  been  quite  car 
ried  away  by  the  near  prospect  of  Having  Her  Own 
Way.  She  looked  a  little  confused,  and  was  silent  as 
they  walked  along.  It  did  not,  seem  to  be  unnatural 
or  uncomfortable  to  be  silent  with  Mr.  Andrews,  who 
was  essentially  a  silent  man.  Just  before  they  reached 
the  house,  she  gave  a  last  look  back  towards  the  bay. 

"I  do  not  see  them,"  she  said,  "  they  are  not  yet 
inside  the  harbor.  I  should  not  wonder  if  you  caught 
them  before  they  start  from  Eel  Creek.  Probably  they 
were  all  day  getting  there." 

"  You  are  right,  and  I  ought  to  hurry." 

"You  know  the  road  to  Eel  Creek?" 

"Well,  yes,  I  think  so;  lam  not  quite  sure,  but 
probably  I  can  find  it.  I  have  a  general  idea." 

"  If  there  is  any  doubt,  take  one  of  our  men  with 
you." 

"  Thank  you,  that  won't  be  necessary.  I  will  in 
quire  my  way.  Miss  Rothermel,  you  have  been 


108  MISRULE. 

very  good — I  don't  know  how  I  can  thank  you 
enough." 

"  Oh,  as  to  that,  don't  thank  me  till  you  have  got 
the  other  side  of  the  trouble.  Only  don't  give  out — " 

"  You  are  afraid  of  me,"  he  said  with  a  smile. 
"  Well,  I  acknowledge  I  am  rather  a  coward,  when 
it  comes  to  the  management  of  maid-servants. 
But  I  will  be  firm." 

They  had  now  got  to  the  steps  that  led  into  the  sum 
mer  parlor,  and  as  she  turned  to  go  up  them,  she  gave 
a  look  at  her  companion,  who  was  lifting  his  hat  and 
passing  on.  He  looked  so  stalwart  and  so  invincible, 
that  she  believed  he  was  anything  but  a  coward,  ex 
cept  where  women  were  concerned.  Somewhere, 
however,  there  must  be  a  loose  scale  in  his  armor. 
He  certainly  was  the  sort  of  man  tyrannized  over 
easily  by  women. 

"And  yet,"  thought  Missy,  correcting  the  convic 
tion,  "  in  one  case  we  know  he  was  a  brutal  tyrant. 
But  no  matter.  Anything  to  rescue  Jay."  So  she  gave 
him  a  pleasant  smile,  and  told  him  they  should  wait 
tea  for  the  children,  and  went  into  the  house,  while  he 
walked  rapidly  towards  the  gate. 


A     TEA     TABLE     TRUCE.  109 

CHAPTER  VIII. 
A   TEA   TABLE  TRUCE. 

WO  hours  later,  Mr.  Andrews  drove  up  to 
the  door,  in  the  darkness,  with  a  pair  of 
sleepy  children,  and  a  pair  of  restless 
horses,  and  a  coachman  feeling  deeply  the 
surreptitious  claret  and  champagne.  Missy,  hearing 
the  turbulent  voice  of  Ja,y,  ran  to  the  door,  accom 
panied  by  Ann.  The  bright  light  from  the  hall  came 
flooding  on  the  piazza  as  the  door  opened,  and  Missy, 
reaching  out  her  arms  to  take  the  sleepy  boy  from  his 
father,  looked  like  a  good  angel,  to  his  eyes.  Gabby 
was  following  up  the  steps  and  whimpering  audibly. 

"  You  will  have  your  hands  full,  Miss  Rothermel, 
I  am  afraid,"  he  said  gloomily.  "  The  children  are 
very  cross.  Bat  I  am  thankful  that  I  took  your  ad 
vice.  The  carouse  was  not  nearly  over.  I  believe 
the  children  would  have  been  drowned,  if  I  had  not 
gone  for  them.  The  creatures  were  just  embarking 
for  the  return  voyage,  all  as  drunk  as  lords.  Heaven 
knows  what  might  have  happened  if  they  had  got  off. 
I  ordered  them  on  shore,  and  put  the  sail-boat  in 
charge  of  the  man  who  lives  near  the  beach,  and  the 
wretches  are  to  come  home  on  foot.  The  walk  may 
sober  them  a  little." 

"  Poor  little  Jay,"  cried  Missy,  hugging  him.  He 
slapped  her,  and  then  began  to  roar  with  remorse  and 
headache  combined,  and  to  throw  himself  back  and  try 


110  A     TEA     TABLE     TRUCE. 

to  fall  out  of  her  arms.     They   were   now  in  the  hall. 
His  father,  horrified,  began  to  reprove  him. 

"  Oh,  don't,"  cried  Missy,  "  poor  little  man.  He  is 
not  responsible.  To-morrow  morning  he'll  be  all  right. 
Come,  Gabby,  take  off  your  hat,  child." 

"  I  don't  know  what  I  should  have  done  with  them, 
if  I  had  not  had  this  refuge,"  said  Mr.  Andrews,  look 
ing  careworn  indeed. 

"  Oh,  that  is  nothing,"  said  Missy  cheerily  ;  "  we  are 
so  glad  to  have  them.  And  you,  Mr.  Andrews,  mam 
ma  begs  you  will  come  in  to  tea." 

"That  will  be  impossible,  I'm  afraid;  thank  you 
very  much,"  he  said,  looking  anxiously  back  towards 
the  door,  whence  came  the  sound  of  stamping  horses, 
and  an  occasional  mumbled  ejaculation  and  a  fre 
quently  snapped  whip.  "  I  have  to  look  after  the 
horses,  and  this  man." 

"  Let  Peters  do  that,"  said  Missy,  bent  on  her  own 
way.  She  had  determined  to  bury  the  hatchet  and  to 
have  Mr.  Andrews  stay  to  tea.  She  felt  it  was  a  gra 
cious  thing  to  do,  though  rather  hard,  and  having 
made  up  her  mind  to  an  act  of  magnanimity,  objected 
to  being  thwarted. 

"  Mamma  wants  to  see  you,"  she  said.  "  Besides, 
you  have  not  had  any  dinner,  and  you  will  not  prob 
ably  get  any  at  home,  unless  you  cook  it  yourself.  Let 
Peters  go  in  and  attend  to  the  stable.  It  is  the  only 
thing  to  do." 

"  Perhaps  you  are  right,"  he  said,  irresolutely. 
"  Well,  as  you  are  so  kind,  I  will  go  home,  and  lock  a 
few  of  the  doors,  and  return  in  a  moment." 

As  he  drove   off,  Missy   heard  him  say  a  word  or 
two  to  the  coachman,  which  convinced  her  he  was  not 


A     TEA     TABLE     TRUCE.  Ill 

afraid  of  men  servants,  whatever  he  might  be  of  maid 
servants.  Ann  was  sent  to  call  Peters.  Gabby,  who 
was  really  ill  from  over-eating  and  over-fatigue,  was 
sent  to  bed  in  care  of  Goneril.  Jay,  who  pled  to  stay 
up  to  tea,  was  allowed  to  lie  on  the  sofa  beside  the 
tire,  and  get  warmed  after  his  long  exposure  to  the 
night  air.  Missy  covered  him  with  an  afghan,  and 
kneeling  down  beside  him,  had  just  seen  his  eyes  close 
in  unconquerable  sleep,  when  Mr.  Andrews  came  in. 
He  was  half  way  across  the  room  before  her  mother's 
"  Missy  !  "  started  her  to  her  feet.  "  Oh,  I  beg  your 
pardon  ;  I  did  not  hear  you.  Mamma,  let  me  present 
Mr.  Andrews." 

Mrs.  Varian  half  rose  from  her  sofa,  and  Mr.  An 
drews  thought  her  lovely  and  gracious,  as  every  one 
else  did.  He  bowed  to  Miss  Variau  ;  and,  no  doubt,  he 
thought  they  were  all  angels,  as  indeed  he  was  ex 
cusable  for  thinking,  coming  from  the  dark  and  hope 
less  tangle  of  his  own  house.  The  cheer  of  the  fire 
and  the  lamp,  the  odor  of  the  flowers,  the  grace  of  the 
woman  who  had  arisen  to  welcome  him,  the  kindness 
of  the  one  who  had  been  kneeling  beside  his  little 
outcast,  the  air  of  order,  luxury,  peace,  all  filled  him. 
with  a  sense  that  he  had  been  living  in  another  world, 
on  the  other  side  of  the  arbor-vitae  hedge.  He  was,  as 
has  been  said,  a  silent  man,  and  one  of  those  straight 
forward  men  who  never  seem  to  think  that  they  need 
to  speak  when  they  have  nothing  to  say.  He  was  not 
silent  from  shyness,  but  from  simplicity  of  motive, 
from  a  native  honesty  ;  consequently,  his  silence  was 
not  oppressive,  but  natural,  To-night,  however,  there 
was  much  to  say.  There  were  the  details  of  the 
broken-up  camp  at  Eel  Creek,  the  various  stages  of  hi- 


112  A     TEA     TABLE     TRUCE. 

larity  and  depression  among  the  servants,  the  danger 
of  the  children,  the  probabilities  of  a  slow  inarch,  the 
ludicrous  side  of  the  coming  midnight  court-martial. 
"When  they  were  ready  to  go  in  to  tea,  Missy  stayed 
behind  for  an  instant  to  tuck  Jay's  afghan  about  him 
and  put  a  chair  beside  him,  and  to  feel  whether  his 
pulse  was  quick.  "  Bless  him,"  she  whispered,  giving 
him  a  kiss,  "  better  days  are  coming." 

The  tea  table  was  as  graceful  and  pretty  as  possi 
ble  ;  the  things  to  eat  rarely  good,  and  Mr.  Andrews, 
poor  man,  had  been  fasting  all  day.  He  despised 
lunch,  and  he  hadn't  had  any  chance  to  get  a  dinner  ;  so 
no  wonder  he  appreciated  the  tea  that  was  set  before 
him.  Miss  Varian  was  in  a  good  humor,  and  quite 
sharp  and  witty,  and  whatever  Mrs.  Varian  said,  was  al 
ways  gracious  and  delightful.  Miss  Rothermel  had 
enough  to  do  to  pour  out  the  tea,  and  she  was  quite 
satisfied  with  the  march  of  events,  including  Mr. 
Andrews'  appetite,  and  the  complexion  of  the  waf 
fles.  She  thought  of  the  soupless  dinner  he  had  men 
tioned,  and  of  the  alms-house  provision  of  boiled  rice 
and  raisins,  and  she  felt  for  a  moment,  what  bliss  to 
keep  house  for  a  man  with  such  an  appetite  and  no 
ascetic  tendencies.  St.  John  was  a  continual  trial  to 
her.  But  then  she  checked  herself  sharply,  and  thought 
how  deceitful  appearances  were,  and  how  cruel  had 
been  the  lot  of  the  woman  who  had  kept  house  for 
him,  till  alas,  a  month  ago  exactly.  It  was  a  bitter 
commentary  on  her  fate,  that  he  was  able  to  enjoy 
broiled  oysters  so  unblushingiy  within  thirty  days  of  his 
bereavement.  Happily,  behind  the  tea-kettle,  Missy's 
dark  frown  was  hidden  ;  but  she  soon  threw  it  off  ; 


A     TEA     TABLE     TRUCE,  113 

she  had  made  up  her  mind  to  be  amiable  for  this  one 
evening,  and  she  would  not  break  her  resolution. 

After  tea,  when  they  were  again  around  the  parlor 
fire,  St.  John  came  in.  The  sight  of  him  changed  the 
expression  of  the  guest's  face  ;  the  care-worn  look 
came  back,  and  a  silence.  Before  very  long,  he  said, 
rising,  that  he  must  go  home,  and  make  ready  for  the 
reception  of  the  criminals.  This  was  plainly  a  thing 
that  ought  to  be  done,  and  Mrs.  Varian  had  been  think 
ing  so  for  half  an  hour.  St.  John  went  with  him  to 
the  door,  and  Missy  heard  Mr.  Andrews  say,  as  they 
parted  on  the  piazza  :  "I  have  wanted  to  see  you.  I 
hope  you  don't  think  that,  because  our  interview  was 
what  it  was,  I  shrink  from  further  acquaintance. 
Perhaps  I  should  have  gone  to  you,  and  said  this. 
I  hope  you  will  take  it  now.  You  can  understand  how 
hard  it  is  for  me  to  say  this." 

"I  do  understand,"  said  St.  John  earnestly  ;  "and 
I  hope  that  the  painful  association  will  not  interfere 
with  our  future  intercourse.  Perhaps  I  should  have 
gone  to  you,  and  said  this." 

She  lost  what  followed — an  irreparable  loss.  She 
had  been  standing  at  the  window,  which  was  open,  be 
hind  the  curtain,  and  could  not  have  helped  hearing 
what  they  said. 

"  Rather  a  high  and  mighty  penitent,"  she  said  to 
herself,  indignantly,  going  over  his  words  in  her  mind. 
"  And  St.  John  is  so  young,  and  so — well,  I  am  afraid 
he's  weak.  It  is  natural  for  people  to  be  weak  when 
they  are  young.  He  seemed  only  anxious  to  propiti 
ate  him.  I  suppose  he  hopes  in  that  way  to  get  an  in 
fluence  over  him.  Of  course,  it  must  be  hard  to  stand 


1U  A     TEA     TABLE     TRUCE. 

up  against  a  man  of  double  his  own  age  ;  but  I  should 
think  being  a  priest  would  give  him  courage." 

At  this  time,  Jay  woke  up,  and,  in  taking  him  to 
bed,  she  missed  St.  John's  return  to  the  parlor,  and 
the  remainder  of  his  visit.  '*  Mamma,  what  do  you 
think  of  him  ?"  she  said,  sitting  down  beside  her  mo 
ther's  sofa  late  that  night. 

"  I  rather  like  him,"  was  the  answer. 

"  Yes,  if  one  could  forget  everything.  I  think  he 
is  gentlemanly,  and  unobjectionable  in  manner — al 
most  pleasing.  But  I  suppose  I  ought  not  to  forget 
•what  I  know  of  his  cruel  neglect,  and  of  the  almost 
trag'c  end  of  it." 

'  Of  course,  that  seems  terrible — but — " 

"But,  mamma  !"  cried  Missy,  " I  scarcely  expected 
you  to  say  that.  Oh,  how  true  it  is,  women  are  cruel 
to  each  other.  Think — you  know  nothing  in  favor  of 
Mr.  Andrews.  Everything  in  his  disfavor  :  nothing 
against  Mrs.  Andrews  :  everything  in  her  favor,  and 
yet  you  say,  '  I  rather  like  him  ;  all  this  is  very 
terrible— but—' " 

"  We-11,  you  know  I  had  never  seen  the  wife.  You 
are  influenced  by  admiration  for  her.  I  am  influenced 
by  something  that  attracts  me  in  the  husband.  We 
really,  Missy,  do  not  know  much  of  the  lives  of  either 
of  them." 

"  I  know  that  she  was  neglected,  left  alone.  That 
for  days  together  she  never  saw  her  husband.  That 
his  manner,  on  receiving  the  news  of  her  death,  was 
more  stolid  and  indifferent  than  mine  would  have  been 
on  being  told  of  the  sudden  and  suffering  death  of  a 
total  stranger.  I  know  that  she  hated,  feared  him. 


A     TEA     TABLE     TRUCE.  115 

And  she  was  impulsive,  quick,  and  probably  warm- 
h earted." 

"  Probably,  Missy  ?  Well,  I  don't  want  to  wound 
you — but — but  her  children  did  not  seem  very  dear  to 
her." 

"  Mamma,  when  one  is  suffering  as  she  was,  natur 
ally,  to  an  undisciplined  nature,  life  centers  where  the 
suffer! nsr is.  You  cannot  think  of  anything  else.  You 

Z5  J  !j 

just  cry  out,  and  bend  your  mind  upon  getting  through 
with  your  pain  as  best  you  may,  unless  you  have  learned 
the  higher  lesson,  which  of  course  I  know  she  hadn't. 
She  had  not  in  any  sense  learned  the  uses  of  her  suf 
ferings  ;  I  dou't  deny  that.  But  who  heaped  those  suf 
ferings  upon  her  ?  Who  failed  to  make  her  better,  if 
she  was  not  perfect,  child  as  she  was,  compared  with 
him  ?  Think  of  the  difference  in  their  ages.  Oh,  it 
makes  me  bitter  to  think  of  it.  No,  nothing  can  excuse 
him,  nothing." 

"It  is  hard  to  say  that.  Wait  till  we  know  both 
stories." 

"  Those  we  never  shall  know.  She  can't  tell  us 
any  more  of  hers,  poor  soul,  and  he  never  will,  you 
may  be  sure.  Or,  if  he  did,  I  should  not  feel  bound 
to  believe  him.  I  assure  you,  I  am  not  impressed  with 
him  as  you  are." 

"  He  seems  very  tender  towards  his  children." 

"Yes,  tender,  but  weak  and  irresolute.  Possibly  a 
little  remorseful ;  we  don't  know  how  long  this  will 
last.  He  is  undoubtedly  sorry  he  broke  their  poor 
mother's  heart,  as  sorry  as  such  a  stout,  stolid  thing 
can  be,  and  he  doesn't  want  the  children  to  be  drowned 
by  the  servants,  or  taught  to  swear  or  steal,  just  now, 
at  any  rate.  He  is  willing  to  second  our  efforts  to  save 


116  A     TEA     TABLE     TRUCE. 

them.  He  will  not  oppose  us,  at  any  rate.  You  must 
acknowledge  it  wouldn't  look  well,  if  he  did." 

"  Now,  Missy,  you  are  uncharitable." 

"No,  mamma  ;  you  are  over-charitable  ;  this  plaus 
ible  gentleman  has  so  worked  upon  you.  Really  I — I 
hate  him.  I  always  have,  and  your  taking  him  up  so 
only  increases  rny  aversion." 

"Excuse  me.     My  taking  him  up  is  imaginary. 

"  Oh,  no,  mamma,  believe  me,  you  have  taken  his 
side,  unconsciously  to  yourself.  And,  equally  uncon 
sciously,  you  have,  from  the  very  first,  set  yourself 
against  her,  and  deplored  my  infatuation.  I  have 
always  seen  it." 

"I  confess  that  some  things  you  told  me  prejudiced 
me  against  her.  I  felt  that  her  personal  attraction 
must  be  great  to  make  you  overlook  them." 

"  You  mean  her  telling  me  things  against  her  hus 
band,  even  as  early  as  our  first  interview." 

"And  her  indifference  to  her  children,  Missy,  and 
her  great  egotism." 

o  o 

"  I  can  understand,  mamma,  how  this  would  strike 
you.  I  am  quite  sure  if  you  had  known  her,  you  would 
not  have  wondered,  or  blamed  ;  you  would  only  have 
pitied.  She  spoke  to  me  because  she  saw  my  friend 
ship,  and  because,  poor  soul,  she  had  seen  no  one  but 
the  servants  for  weeks  or  months.  I  shouldn't  have 
wondered  if  she  had  told  me  her  whole  history  the 
first  time  that  I  saw  her." 

"  But  she  never  did  tell  you  her  whole  history 
Missy.  You  know  nothing  of  it  really,  notwithstand 
ing  all  the  time  you  spent  with  her." 

"  And  that  you  find  against  her  !  Really,  mamma, 
you  are  hard  to  please.  You  reproach  her  for  telling 


A     TEA     TABLE     TRUCE.  117 

me  so  much,  and  you  distrust  her  because  she  did  not 
tell  me  more." 

"Vague  accusations,  and  complaints  of  injustice 
are  easily  made,  Missy.  I  should  think  we  were  in  a 
better  position  to  judge  of  matters,  if  you  had  ever 
had  a  plain  story  of  her  life  and  its  wrongs  given  to 
you." 

"I  wish,  for. your  sake,  that  I  had  ;  but  perhaps  it 
was  more  noble  in  her  to  die  without  doing  it.  I  am 
afraid,  mamma,  we  shall  never  think  alike  about  this. 
But  if  you  can't  sympathize  with  me,  at  least  do  not 
try  me  by  too  much  approbation  of  this  man.  I  will 
bear  anything  in  reason  ;  but  if  you  and  Aunt  Harriet 
and  St.  John  all  continue  to  pay  homage  to  him  as  you 
did  to-night,  I  shall  think  it  rather  trying." 

"  Oh,  as  to  that,  I  think  we  were  only  civil  ;  and 
you  were  quite  as  amiable  as  we — which,  my  dear,  you 
must  continue  to  be,  if  you  hope  to  keep  any  hold  over 
Jay's  fate.  Poor  little  fellow  !  do  not,  by  an  unneces 
sary  show  of  rancor,  throw  him  back  into  the  arms  of 
Alphonsine  and  Bridget." 

"  That  is  the  only  thing,"  said  Missy,  crossing  the 
room  to  fasten  the  window  for  the  night.  "I  mean  to 
get  my  own  way  about  him  ;  and  I  only  hope  it  will 
not  involve  speaking  many  more  words,  good  or  bad, 
to  his  father." 


118  THE    SWEETS     OF     VICTORY. 

CHAPTER  IX. 

THE    SWEETS    OF    VICTORY. 


HE    next   morning  a  little  note  came  from 
Mr.  Andrews.     It  was  addressed  to  Missy. 

"  Dear  Miss  Rothermel  — 

"  The  woman  named  Alphonsine  is  very 
penitent,  and  begs  to  stay.  Do  you  think  I  might 
allow  her?  Very  truly  yours, 

ANDREWS." 


Missy  dashed  off  a  reply  on  the  other  side  of  his 
sheet  of  paper  in  pencil. 

"  Don't  keep  her  on  any  account.  She  is  the  worst 
of  them  all.  A.  R." 

As  Missy  twisted  this  up  and  handed  it  to  the  mes 
senger,  Mrs.  Varian  rather  anxiously  asked  to  see  it. 
"  Don't  you  even  put  it  in  an  envelope  ?"  she  said 
glancing  over  the  meagre  slip.  "Your  notes  are  gen 
erally  so  nice  ;  this  doesn't  look  like  you,  and  is  hardly 
civil." 

"  Business  is  business,"  said  Missy,  twisting  it  up 
again,  and  going  out  to  give  it  to  the  messenger.  "I 
don't  think  it  is  worth  while  to  waste  monograms  and 
London  paper  on  such  matters  as  these." 

"  What  sudden  thrift  !     Where  are  the  children  ?" 

"I  am  going  to  look  for  them,"  said  Missy,  draw 
ing  on  her  gloves.  "I  want  to  get  them  out  of  the 


THE    SWEETS     OF     VICTORY.  119 

way,  and  keep  them  safe,  till  the  hegira  is  over.  I 
haven't  much  faith  in  Mr.  Andrews'  having  the  nerve 
to  do  it  ;  but  perhaps  I  don't  do  him  justice.  If  they 
are  not  all  got  off  by  the  noon  train  to-day,  I  shall 
know  it  will  never  be  done." 

Missy  carried  the  children  out  with  her  in  the  pony- 
wagon  ;  she  even  took  Mr.  Andrews'  intentions  to  be  so 
probable  of  execution,  that  she  went  two  or  three  miles 
inland  to  see  the  woman  whom  she  had  fixed  upon  in 
her  own  mind,  as  the  successor  to  Alphonsine  in  the 
care  of  the  children.  She  even  stopped  at  the  tin 
man's,  in  the  village,  to  get  the  address  of  a  good 
substantial  cook,  whom  she  knew  to  be  out  of  place, 
who  had  a  settled  reputation  for  bread-baking,  and 
an  honorable  record  in  the  matter  of  soup.  She  did 
not  say  for  whom  she  wanted  her — she  was  a  little 
ashamed  of  taking  it  for  granted,  that  her  advice 
would  be  acted  upon.  All  the  same,  it  was  as  well  to 
be  prepared.  She  even  drove  to  a  house  in  one  of  the 
bye-streets  of  the  village,  to  see  if  a  certain  Ellen, 
whose  black  eyes  and  white  aprons  had  always  met 
her  approval,  was  still  out  of  a  situation.  All  these 
were  at  her  command — cook,  waitress,  and  nurse.  It 
was  fascinating  to  have  everything  go  so  smooth. 
How  delightful  to  have  your  own  way  ;  how  heavenly 
to  make  people  carry  out  your  plans.  Through  it  all 
there  ran  one  little  thread  of  doubt  as  to  the  steadfast 
ness  of  Mr.  Andrews  ;  this  only  gave  the  matter  zest. 
She  felt  as  if  it  were  quite  a  stirring  little  vaudeville  ;  it 
wasn't  worth  while  to  make  tragedy  out  of  it,  and  get 
angry  if  she  were  disappointed — but  altogether  she  liked 
it.  She  liked  driving  about  with  her  brisk  little  pony  on 
a  bright  September  morning  like  this,  doing  her  errands, 


120  THE    SWEETS     OF     VICTORY. 

giving  ber  orders,  having  people  come  out  smiling  to 
their  gates  to  speak  to  her.  She  liked  all  this,  even 
when  it  was  only  her  own  errands  she  did,  and  her 
own  ordinary  housekeeping  that  she  looked  out  for. 
It  was  a  pleasure  to  secure  the  best  butter  and  the 
freshest  eggs,  and  to  drive  to  pretty,  cool-looking  farm 
houses  for  them  ;  to  go  for  cornmeal  and  graham  flour 
just  ground,  to  a  romantic-looking  old  mill  by  the 
edge  of  the  woods,  where  the  drip  of  the  water  and 
the  shade  of  the  trees  made  a  perpetual  cool.  People 
who  had  things  to  sell  were  always  glad  to  see  her, 
for  she  bought  a  great  many  things  and  paid  a  good 
price  for  them.  She  was  often  called  upon  for  favors 
and  for  advice,  and  this  pleased  her.  The  sight  of  the 
pretty  little  carriage  was  a  signal  for  many  an  in 
habitant  of  farm-house  or  village,  to  come  out  to  the 
roadside  and  have  a  consultation  with  the  young  lady 
who  drove  it.  She  was  a  favorite,  and  it  is  pleasant  to 
be  important — and  to  have  your  own  way.  She 
generally  had  hers,  even  about  other  people's  matters, 
for  it  was  a  very  good  way,  and  a  good  way  presented 
in  such  a  manner  as  was  convincing.  Of  course,  she 
had  her  disappointments  ;  the  clam-man's  daughter 
did,  on  one  occasion,  marry  the  scallop-man's  son, 
against  her  advice — but  they  came  to  such  speedy 
grief,  that  it  more  than  consoled  her.  The  miller's 
wife  was  not  willing,  last  Spring,  to  listen  to  reason 
about  her  butter,  and  so  had  lost  all  market  for  it 
among  the  people  who  paid  high  prices,  and  had  to 
carry  it,  finally,  to  the  "store,"  and  take  what  she  could 
get  for  it.  Missy  lost  the  butter,  but  she  had  the 
satisfaction  of  knowing,  that  the  next  year  her  advice 
would  be  promptly  taken.  All  these  things  were  sweet 


THE    SWEETS     OF     VICTORY.  121 

to  her,  but  how  much  sweeter  it  was  to  be  feeling  that 
she  was  managing  completely  a  household  in  which 
she  had  no  legitimate  business  to  interfere  ;  that  she 
was  putting  to  rout  a  troop  of  worthless  servants  who 
Lad  opposed  her,  and  ill-treated  her  darling  Jay. 
Above  all,  that  she  was  making  a  very  weak-kneed 
master  stand  firm.  Oh,  if  she  could  be  sure  that  he 
would  stand  firm !  It  was  this  doubt,  that  made 
her  feel  as  if  it  were  all  genteel  comedy,  and  really 
quite  exciting. 

The  children  were  pretty  good  that  morning,  not 
withstanding  the  orgies  of  the  night  before.  Gabri- 
elle  was  subdued  and  a  little  ashamed,  and  Jay's 
memory  was  not  burdened  with  any  remorse,  nor  had 
he  missed  his  sleep,  nor  omitted  to  make  a  very  good 
breakfast  in  his  new  quarters.  He  was  burly  and 
jolly  and  good  as  ever.  He  liked  the  drive,  and  the 
stops,  and  the  fresh  cool  breeze,  and  the  bright  Sep 
tember  sunshine,  and  the  holding  the  whip  in  his  hand. 

The  roadside  was  bright  with  golden-rod  and 
purple  asters,  the  Virginia  creeper  was  turning  red  on 
the  fences  and  over  the  trees  where  it  had  flung  itself  ; 
catbrier,  shining  and  glossy,  cedar  dark  and  dusky, 
sumach  red  and  brown,  all  in  mat  and  tangle  of  the 
luxuriant  summer's  growth,  clothed  the  banks  that 
edged  the  road.  Jay  stretched  out  his  hand  to  catch 
the  bright  leaves  when  they  passed  near  them  ;  the 
bottom  of  the  carriage  was  filled  with  branches  of  red 
leaves,  with  bunches  of  Michaelmas  daisies  and  asters 
already  withering  in  the  sun. 

Missy  looked  at  her  watch  ;  it  was  just  noon.  Her 
heart  beat  high.  They  were  on  the  road  that  led  to 
the  station.  If  the  servants  were  sent  off  by  the  mid- 
6 


122  THE    SWEETS     OF     VICTORY. 

day  1  rain,  they  must  meet  them  in  the  course  of  a  few 
moments.  She  now  began  to  doubt  whether  it  had 
not  all  fallen  through.  It  was  impossible  to  say  how 
she  despised  Mr.  Andrews  when  she  thought  it  might 
be  that  he  had  given  in.  Every  rod  of  road  they  pas 
sed  over  added  to  this  conviction.  She  looked  at  her 
watch  again.  If  they  did  not  meet  them  within  five 
minutes  there  was  no  further  hope. 

"  What's  the  matter,  Missy  ;  why  do  you  pull  the 
pony  so  ?"  said  Jay,  looking  up  into  her  face.  They 
were  going  down  a  hill,  where  the  road  was  narrow, 
deep  and  sandy.  At  this  moment  they  heard  the 
lumbering,  and  caught  sight  of  a  heavy  vehicle  coming 
up  the  hill  towards  them. 

"  It's  the  stage  !"  cried  Gabby,  growing  interested. 
"  And  there's  Leon,  and  there's  Bridget,  and  there's 
Alphonsine,  and  all  of  'em." 

Jay  at  this  news  set  up  a  great  shout,  and  started 
to  his  feet. 

"  Sit  down,  Jay,"  cried  Missy  ;  "  don't  you  see 
there  isn't  room  for  the  stage  to  pass.  I  tell  you  to 
be  quiet."  Missy  had  her  hands  full  in  managing  Jay, 
and  getting  the  pony  out  of  the  road,  with  his  head  up 
into  the  bushes.  This  was  the  only  part  of  the  nar 
row  road  where  they  could  pass,  so  she  had  to  draw 
up  on  one  side,  and  wait  while  the  heavy  stage  crawled 
up  the  hill.  The  information  was  soon  telegraphed 
through  the  gloomy  ranks,  who  presented  a  sullen 
front.  The  stage  was  driven  by  one  Moses,  who  had 
always  driven  it  since  any  one  could  remember.  He 
sat  bent  up  like  a  bow,  with  years  of  long  and  lazy 
driving  ;  his  hat  pushed  a  little  back  on  his  head.  He 
nodded  indifferently  to  Missy.  It  was  all  he  did  to 


THE    SWEETS     OF     VIC  TOUT.  123 

any  one,  so  no  one  could  complain.  Beside  him  sat 
Leon,  dark  and  scowling  ;  behind  them  sat  Michael, 
red  and  wrathful  ;  behind  him  again,  the  dismissed 
cook,  laundress,  nurse,  and  last  of  all,  Alphonsine.  It 
was  the  wreck  of  a  household,  indeed.  Missy  felt  a 
momentary  elation  when  she  saw  them  all  together. 
She  had  not  realized  how  many  there  were,  before,  and 
to  what  a  complete  rout  she  had  put  them.  It  was 
rather  awkward,  drawing  up  by  the  roadside,  and  hav 
ing  them  all  pass  in  review  before  her,  as  it  were  ;  but 
it  could  not  be  helped — the  condition  of  a  Long  Island 
road  never  can  be  helped.  A  heavy  wagon,  driven 
by  one  of  the  sons  of  Moses,  the  stage-driver,  filled 
with  the  trunks  of  the  departing  servants,  crawled  on 
after  the  stage.  The  boy  was  rather  rakish-looking  ; 
he  sat  on  one  of  the  trunks  and  smoked  a  very  bad 
cigar,  which  he  was  not  at  the  pains  to  remove  from 
his  mouth  when  he  approached  the  lady.  She  glanced 
quickly  at  the  trunks,  and  a  wandering  wish  passed 
through  her  mind  that  she  might  see  the  inside  of 
them,  and  estimate  roughly  the  degree  to  which  the 
master  had  been  plundered.  She  cast  her  eyes  down 
after  this,  or  only  allowed  them  to  rest  on  her  pony, 
who  did  not  like  being  crowded  up  into  the  bushes, 
and  did  not  stand  quite  still.  It  is  very  possible  that 
all  might  have  gone  well,  if  Jay  could  have  behaved 
himself  decently  f  but  his  old  wrath  returned  when  he 
saw  Michael,  and  saw  him  from  a  friend's  side. 

'•  Hurrah  !"  he  shouted,  £jettin£  on  his  feet  on  the 

'     O  O 

seat.  "Hurrah!  You  have  got  sent  away,  and  it 
was  because  you  got  drunk,  and  was  bad  yesterday, 
aud  I  am  glad  of  it,  I  am." 

Michael  was  too  anscrv  and  too  much  the  worse  for 


124  TEE    SWEETS     OF     VICTORY. 

the  last  night's  revel,  to  control  himself.  "  You  little 
devil,"  he  cried,  and  shook  his  fist  at  the  boy. 

Even  then,  if  the  boy  could  have  been  subdued,  it  is 
possible  that  the  habit  of  decent  silence  before  their 
betters,  would  have  kept  them  all  quiet  till  they  were 
out  of  hearing  of  the  party  in  the  pony  carriage.  They 
all  knew  or  suspected  that  Missy  was  their  enemy,  but 
she  was  dignified,  and  no  word  had  ever  broken  their 
habit  of  respect  to  her.  She  flushed  up  and  tried  to 
keep  Jay  quiet,  and  did  not  look  towards  the  stage, 
now  floundering  through  the  sand  alongside.  But  she 
had  also  the  pony  to  keep  under,  and  he  required  both 
hands.  Jay  did  not  like  to  be  called  a  little  devil,  and 
there  was  no  one  to  stop  him,  except  by  counsel,  which 
he  did  not  ever  much  regard  ;  he  made  a  dash  with 
the  whip,  and  lurching  forward,  struck  towards  Michael 
with  all  his  small  might.  The  end  of  the  lasn,  fine 
and  stinging,  reached  that  person's  red,  and  sun- 
scorched  cheek. 

"  I'll  teach  you  to  call  me  little  devil,"  cried  Jay, 
as  he  dealt  the  blow. 

A  howl  of  rage  escaped  the  man,  though  it  must 
have  hurt  him  very  little.  He  made  a  spring  for  Jay. 
The  stage  was  going  so  slowly  it  was  not  difficult 
for  him  to  leap  from  it  and  land  beside  the  little 
carriage.  Moses  pulled  up,  much  interested.  Moses' 
son,  behind,  pulled  up,  interested  quite  as  much. 
Michael  caught  the  boy  with  a  fierce  hand.  Missy 
leaned  forward,  exclaiming,  "  Don't  touch  the  child. 
I  forbid  you.  Don't  touch  him,  unless  you  want  to  get 
yourself  in  trouble  !  " 

A  chorus  of  indignation  burst  from  the  crew  in  the 
stage.  Michael,  backed  by  this,  shook  the  child  fiercely 


THE    SWEETS     OF     VICTORY.  125 

in  her  very  lap,  boxed  his  ears,  with  one  brutal  hand 
after  the  other,  and  then  hurled  him  back  upon  her, 
and  swung  himself  into  the  stage  again.  A  shower  of 
coarse  and  horrid  words  assailed  poor  Missy's  ears,  as 
she  caught  him  in  her  disengaged  arm.  It  had  never 
been  her  luck  before  to  be  assailed  by  an  Irish  tongue, 
loosed  from  the  decency  of  servitude.  She  had  never 
had  "  words"  with  any  of  her  mother's  servants.  This 
was  quite  a  new  experience.  She  was  white  to  her 
fingers'  ends.  Jay  did  not  cry.  He  was  white  too. 
Not  cowed,  but  overpowered  by  brute  strength,  and 
stunned  by  the  blows  he  had  got.  Missy  never  knew 
exactly  what  they  said;  some  horrid  words  always  stuck 
in  her  memory,  but  it  was  all  a  confused  hideous  jumble 
besides.  The  women's  tongues  were  the  worst,  their 
voices  the  shrillest,  the  things  they  said  the  ones  that 
stuck  in  the  memory  most.  Moses  was  so  interested  he 
sat  open-mouthed  and  gazed  and  listened.  His  son,  in 
finitely  delighted,  gazed  and  listened  too.  At  last, 
Missy  found  voice  to  say,  above  the  general  babel  : 

"Moses,  will  you  drive  on,  and  let  me  pass?  You 
will  lose  the  train  if  you  don't  go  at  once." 

This  recalled  to  him  the  fact  that  he  had  the  mail- 
bag  at  his  feet,  and  losing  the  train  meant  losing  the 
patronage  of  the  Government  of  the  United  States. 

"  By  Jingo,  that's  a  fact  !"  said  Moses,  gathering 
up  the  reins,  anil  calling  out  "gee-up"  to  the  lean 
horses,  who  had  been  very  glad  to  rest.  The  stage 
lumbered  on,  and  left  the  pony-carriage  free  to  move, 
after  the  baggage-wagon  should  have  passed.  But  the 
baggage-wagon  was  driven  by  Moses'  son,  and  he  had 
no  desire  to  shorten  or  renounce  the  fun.  He  did  not 
carry  the  United  States  mail.  lie  was  probably  not 


123  THE    SWEETS     OF    VICTORY. 

unfamiliar  with  Billingsgate,  and  was  not  shocked, 
only  pleasantly  excited,  by  the  language  employed. 
Pie  even  hurrahed  a  little,  and  laughed,  and  struck  his 
hands  upon  his  knees,  as  Jay  was  pitched  back  into 
the  carriage,  white  and  silenced.  He  liked  a  fight  ex 
ceedingly,  he  did — any  kind  of  a  fight. 

As  the  stage  moved  on,  and  the  viragoes  leaned 
back  and  shook  their  fists  at  the  little  carriage,  and 
the  two  men  roared  back  their  imprecations  at  it,  he 
had  not  the  heart  to  move  on,  and  let  the  pony  out 
into  the  road.  He  knew  how  the  little  beast  would 
dash  away  out  of  sight  down  the  hill,  under  Miss 
Rothermel's  whip  ;  they  would  be  out  of  hearing  in  a 
second.  No,  he  couldn't  do  a  thing  like  that.  It 
wasn't  in  him  to  spoil  a  fight.  He  laughed,  and  threw 
himself  astride  of  the  trunk,  but  didn't  touch  the  reins, 
and  didn't  stir  a  step  aside  from  blocking  up  the  road. 
So  it  was  that  Missy  got  the  full  force  of  the  parting 
maledictions  ;  so  it  was  that  she  got  the  full  tide  of 
Irish,  mixed  with  the  finer-grained  shafts  of  French 
invective  ;  so  it  was  that  she  knew  that  Alphonsine 
had  read  the  little  note  that  she  had  sent  in  that  morn 
ing  to  the  relenting  master,  and  that  she  was  assured 
that  she  had  made  an  enemy  for  life. 

"  We'll  be  aven  wid  ye  yet !"  cried  Bridget. 

"Mademoiselle  shall  hear  from  the  'worst  of  them 
all '  again,"  sneered  Alphonsine,  darting  a  malignant 
look  at  her,  from  under  her  dark  brows. 

Then,  and  not  till  then,  did  the  young  driver  of  the 
luggage-wagon  "  gee-up  "  to  his  horses  and  move  on, 
puffing  the  smoke  from  his  villainous  cigar  into  the 
faces  of  the  pony-carriage  party,  as  he  passed  them, 
and  looking  infinitely  content  as  he  jolted  on.  He  was 


THE    SWEETS     OF     VICTORY.  127 

not  aware  that  lie  had  done  anything  insolent  or  mali 
cious.  He  did  not  know  that  the  smell  of  his  cigar, 
and  the  keen  amusement  of  his  look,  had  been  the  last, 
and  perhaps  most  cutting,  of  the  insults  she  had  re 
ceived.  These  wretches  who  had  just  disappeared 
from  her  presence  were  strangers  and  foreigners,  so  to 
speak  ;  but  this  low  boy  represented  her  home,  her  vil 
lage,  her  place  of  influence.  Poor  Missy  !  that  was  a 
bitter  hour.  Her  vaudeville  was  ending  in  a  horrid 
rout  and  rabble  ;  she  was  sore  and  i-'ick  with  the  recol 
lection  of  it.  She  had  been  dragged  through  the  mud 
on  the  field  where  she  had  felt  sure  of  triumph.  What 
was  the  triumph,  compared  to  the  mud  ?  She  had  suc 
ceeded  in  having  them  sent  away  ;  but  they  had  hu 
miliated  her,  oh  !  most  unspeakably.  The  degrada 
tion  of  having  to  listen  to  such  words,  and  to  sit, 
impotent  and  silent  before  them,  while  they  raged  and 
reviled  her  ! 

The  pony  dashed  down  the  hill.  They  were  out 
of  sight  of  the  place  of  their  defeat  in  a  moment  of 
time;  but  she  felt  as  if  never,  never  could  she  get  out 
of  «ight  of  their  leering  faces,  out  of  hearing  of  their 
horrid  words. 

When  they  were  at  the  bottom  of  the  hill  arid  had 
turned  into  the  main  road,  Jay  began  to  recover  from 
the  shock  and  fright,  and  to  tremble  and  cry.  Gabri- 
elle  never  took  her  eyes  off  Missy's  face  ;  she  was  full 
of  speculation,  but  such  experiences  were  not  as  new 
to  her  as  to  Missy.  She,  however,  remembered,  al 
most  as  well  as  Missy  did,  all  those  insolent  words,  and, 
though  not  understanding  them  fully,  kept  them  in 
mind,  and  interpreted  them  in  the  light  of  events. 

"  Don't  cry,  Jay,"  Missy  said  mechanically.  But  she 


128  THE    SWEETS     OF     VICTORY. 

was  so  shaken  she  could  scarcely  speak.  She  wanted 
to  get  home  and  think  it  over  ;  to  get  out  of  day-light, 
to  get  breath  and  recover  her  voice  again,  and  her  self- 
respect,  her  power  of  feeling  herself  a  lady. 

Jay's  continued  crying  tortured  her  ;  Gabby's  eyes 
on  her  face  angered  her.  She  was  trembling  all  over. 
She  had  not  made  up  her  mind  about  anything,  only 
that  everything  was  horrid  and  degrading,  and  that 
she  wished  she  had  never  seen  or  heard  of  any  of  the 
name  of  Andrews — even  little  Jay. 

As  they  approached  the  gate  she  saw  that  Mr.  An 
drews  was  walking  slowly  up  and  down  before  his 
house,  evidently  watching  for  them.  She  tried  to 
drive  quickly  and  pass  him  with  a  bow,  but  he  came 
up  beside  them  as  they  passed  through  the  gate,  and 
she  had  to  pull  up  the  pony  and  go  slowly.  He 
walked  beside  the  carriage  and  took  Jay's  hand,  which 
was  stretched  out  to  him. 

"  Well,  I've  got  them  all  off,"  he  said,  with  a  sigh 
of  relief. 

"  We  saw  'em  all,"  cried  Gabby,  always  glad  to  im 
part  information.  "  We  saw  'em.  all  ;  and,  oh,  suc^i  a 
time  as  we  have  had  !" 

"  Michael  beat  me,  and  beat  me,"  burst  out  Jay, 
quite  broken  down  at  the  thought  of  being  sympa 
thized  with. 

"  And,  oh,  the  things  they  said  to  Missy  !"  ex 
claimed  Gabby. 

"  And  he  called  me  a  little  devil,  and  I'll  kill  him  !" 
cried  Jay,  beginning  to  sob. 

While  these  side-lights  were  being  thrown  upon 
the  occurrence,  Mr.  Andrews  looked  anxiously  at 


THE    SWEETS     OF     VICTORY.  129 

Missy,  who  was  growing  red  and  white,  and  trembling 
very  visibly. 

"Be silent,  children,"  he  said  impatiently.  "You 
have  had  some  trouble,  Miss  Rothermel,  I  am  afraid." 

By  this  time  they  had  reached  the  house  ;  Missy 
threw  down  the  reins,  which  Mr.  Andrews  caught. 

"  I  hope  nothing  has  happened  to  distress  you,"  he 
said. 

She  did  not  wait  to  give  Jay  to  his  father,  but 
getting  out  very  quickly,  and  not  noticing  the  hand 
that  he  offered  her,  said,  in  a  voice  not  very  steady, 
"  I  don't  want  to  talk  about  it.  It  makes  me  ill  to 
think  of  it.  Call  Peters,  won't  you,  to  take  away  the 
pony,"  ran  up  the  steps  and  disappeared  into  the  house. 
In  another  minute  she  would  have  cried. 

He  took  the  children  out  and  drove  the  pony  up  to 
the  stable.  The  children  followed  him,  and  he  spent 
half  an  hour  with  them  on  the  beach,  trying  to  ex 
tract  from  them  the  history  of  the  morning.  It  was 
rather  difficult  to  get  at  the  facts,  but  he  got  at  enough 
to  make  him  feel  much  disturbed  in  mind.  The  servant 
soon  came  down  to  take  the  children  in  to  dinner,  and 
to  ask  him  to  come  in,  too.  But  this  he  declined, 
wisely  judging  that  his  presence  would  not  be  very  wel 
come  now.  He  went  back  to  his  empty  house,  put  the 
key  in  his  pocket,  and  drove  down  to  the  village  inn 
to  get  something  to  eat. 

Late  in  the  afternoon  he  went  back  to  Mrs.  Vari- 
an's,  to  ask  for  the  counsel  which  had  been  before  so 
freely  offered  him.  He  felt  quite  helpless,  and  could 
not  move  a  step  in  reconstructing  his  household  till 
he  had  been  told  what  to  do.  The  afternoon  was 
quite  clear,  and  since  the  sun  had  set,  the  fire  on  the 
6* 


130  THE    SWEETS     OF     VICTORY. 

hearth  in  the  library  looked  very  cheerful.  The  ser 
vant  let  him  into  that  room.  There  he  found  the 
children  playing  together  a  game  of  checkers,  and 
Goneril  watching  them.  Ann  went  np-slairs  to  sum 
mon  Miss  Rothermel,  but  returned  presently  to  say 
that  Miss  Rothermel  was  lying  down  with  a  severe 
headache,  and  begged  that  Mr.  Andrews  would  excuse 
her.  Miss  Varian,  who  was  in  the  adjoining  parlor, 
dozing  in  a  big  arm-chair,  roused  at  the  sound  of 
voices,  and  called  to  Goneril  to  come  and  lead  her  into 
the  library.  It  was  always  an  amusement  to  have  a 
visitor,  and  she  asked  Mr.  Andrews  to  sit  down  again, 
which  he  was  very  ready  to  do — his  own  house  at 
present  being  a  very  uncheerful  place  to  sit  down  in. 
She  chatted  briskly  with  him,  and  praised  the  chil 
dren  liberally.  This  surprised  the  children,  who 
stopped  their  game  to  listen.  They  were  much  more 
used  to  hearing  themselves  scolded  by  Miss  Varian. 
Then  she  came  to  the  condition  of  his  household,  and 
asked  him  many  questions.  He  was  obliged  to  be 
very  frank,  and  to  tell  her  that  he  had  sent  the  ser 
vants  all  away,  according  to  Miss  Rothermel's  advice, 
and  that  now  he  was  waiting  further  orders. 

"  Well,  it's  too  bad,"  cried  Miss  Varian,  with  a 
laugh.  "  Missy  has  got  you  into  this  fix,  and  she's 
bound  to  help  you  out  of  it.  I  won't  hear  to  her 
going  to  bed,  and  leaving  you  to  starve.  Why,  what 
a  predicament  you're  in  !  Where  did  you  get  your 
dinner?" 

Mr.  Andrews  said  he  had  had  a  very  fair  meal  at 
the  hotel,  and  seemed  anxious  to  make  the  best  of  his 
position.  "  But  who  milks  the  cows,  and  takes  care 


TIIE    SWEETS     OF     VICTORY.  131 

of  things  at  the  stable  ?  Horses  can't  be  locked  up 
like  chairs  and  tables." 

"  Oh  !"  answered  Mr.  Andrews,  "  Peters  has  found 
a  very  decent  man  for  me.  I  feel  quite  satisfied  about 
the  horses  and  cows  ;  and  if  it  were  not  for  imposing 
these  children  upon  you,  I  should  not  be  in  any  trouble 
about  the  house.  It's  more  comfortable  now  than  it 
has  been  for  some  time,  I  assure  you." 

"All  the  same,"  said  Miss  Varian,  "there  is  no 
sense  in  your  being  kept  in  this  unsettled  state,  just 
because  Missy  chooses  to  set  up  a  headache.  It's  a 
new  thing  for  her;  she  isn't  the  kind  of  young  woman 
that  goes  to  bed  with  a  headache  whenever  she's  put 
out.  It's  a  wonder  to  me  what  lias  happened  to  dis 
turb  her.  She  was  well  enough  at  breakfast,  but 
wouldn't  come  down  to  her  dinner.  I  never  "knew 
her  to  stay  away  from  dinner  for  a  headache,  or  any 
such  nonsense  before.  Goneril  shall  go  up  and  see 
why  she  can't  come  down." 

"  I  beg  you  won't  take  any  trouble  about  it,"  said 
Mr.  Andrews,  much  disturbed.  "I  am  sure  she  is  ill, 
she  looked  very  pale.  I  would  not  have  her  annoyed 
for  anything.  If  it  is  not  asking  too  much  of  you  all, 
to  bear  with  the  children,  I  will  try  to  get  some  kind 
of  a  household  together  to-morrow.  I  have  no  doubt 
I  could  hear  of  some  one  in  the  village,  or  I  could  go 
to  the  city  in  the  morning  and  get  some  at  an  office." 

"  Heaven  forbid  !"  cried  Miss  Varian,  fervently. 
"  That  would  break  Missy's  heart,  for  she  has  been 
longing  to  get  these  creatures  away.  And  you  wouldn't 
be  likely  to  get  any  better.  You  know  men  are  always 
imposed  upon." 

"That  is  true,"  said  Mr.  Andrews,  with  a  sigh. 


132  THE    SWEETS     OF     VICTORY. 

"  Missy  went  to  see  about  a  cook  this  morning,"  put 
in  Gabrielle,  who  had  renounced  her  game  and  crept  up 
to  hear  the  talking.  "  And  a  waitress  too.  She  said 
she  had  heard  of  a  place  for  them,  but  she  didn't  say 
where.  Maybe  it  was  for  you,  papa." 

"  Maybe,"  said  her  father,  absently. 

"  Alphonsine  said  in  the  stage  this  morning  that  she 
seemed  to  take  a  great  interest  in  your  affairs,  you 
know." 

"  Hush  !  "  said  her  father,  with  emphasis. 

"How's  that?  Who's  Alphonsine  ?  Your  nurse? 
And  what  did  she  say  ?  "  asked  Miss  Varian,  with  keen 
interest. 

"  Some  impertinence  of  the  servants  after  they  were 
sent  away,  I  suppose,"  said  Mr.  Andrews,  threatening 
Gabrielle  with  a  look. 

"  Did  Missy  hear  it  ?  "  asked  Miss  Varian,  persist 
ing. 

"Papa  says  I  mustn't  tell,"  returned  Gabrielle,  hes 
itating. 

"  Oh,"  said  Miss  Varian,  sharply.  "  It  is  always 
well  to  obey  one's  father." 

"  Gabrielle  makes  a  great  deal  out  of  a  very  little," 
said  Mr.  Andrews,  suppressing  his  annoyance.  "  She 
has  had  the  misfortune  to  be  a  great  deal  thrown  upon 
the  care  of  servants.  I  shall  be  glad  to  get  her  into 
different  ways." 

"  She  ought  to  be  sent  to  boarding-school,"  said 
Miss  Varian. 

"  I  am  afraid  you  are  right ;  I  must  look  about  for  a 
school  for  her  in  the  course  of  the  next  few  months." 

Gabrielle  gave  Miss  Varian  a  very  bitter  look,  but 
Miss  Varian  was  none  the  worse  for  that.  Mr. 


THE    SWEETS     OF     VICTORY.  133 

Andrews  now  arose  to  go,  but  Miss  Varian  protested 
he  should  not  go  till  Missy  had  sent  down  the  ad 
dresses  of  the  persons  she  had  recommended. 

"  I  won't  have  you  kept  in  such  a  state  for  any 
body's  caprice,"  she  said,  sending  Goneril  up  with  a 
message.  And  then  Mr.  Andrews  knew  that  Miss 
Varian  did  not  love  her  step-niece. 

"  Missy  is  very  fond  of  managing,"  she  said.  "  She 
must  understand  she  can't  lay  down  the  reins  when 
ever  she  chooses.  She  must  carry  out  what  she  under 
takes." 

Goneril  was  gone  a  very  long  time,  it  seemed  to 
Mr.  Andrews  ;  he  really  thought  he  was  having  a  great 
deal  of  petticoat  government.  If  it  were  not  for 
the  two  children,  he  would  have  got  clear  of  the 
whole  sex,  he  thought.  He  would  have  taken  bachelor 
apartments,  and  had  not  even  a  chamber-maid.  lie 
would  have  gone  to  a  club  for  his  meals,  and  not  have 
spoken  to  a  woman  from  year's  end  to  year's  end.  But 
there  was  poor  little  Jay,  with  his  tawny  hair  all  un 
kempt,  and  his  saucy  sister  with  her  sash  ends  in  a 
tangle  ;  for  their  sakes  he  must  be  grateful  to  these 
kind  and  dictatorial  friends.  Certainly  he  could  not 
do  without  women  while  he  had  those  two  to  care  for. 
Ho-  must  get  used  to  women,  he  supposed  ;  get  to  be 
half  a  woman  himself  ;  learn  how  to  keep  house  ;  be  a 
perfect  Betty.  He  groaned,  patiently,  while  Miss 
Varian  kept  up  a  brisk  talk  about  his  matters. 

At  last  Goneril  came  back.  Goneril  was  much  in 
terested  in  his  matters  too.  She  was  so  much  inter 
ested,  and  so  zealous,  that  he  was  quite  abashed.  He 
wondered  how  many  more  women  would  be  needed  to 
put  his  affairs  en  train.  Goneril  was  a  very  tall, 


134  THE    SWEETS     OF     VICTORY. 

well-built  woman,  with  an  energetic  tread.  She  had 
her  own  views  on  most  matters,  and  was  not  withheld 
from  uttering  them  by  any  false  delicacy  about  a 
menial  position.  Wasn't  she  the  daughter  of  an 
American  farmer?  So,  when  she  came  down  to  deliver 
Miss  Rothermel's  message,  she  added  many  of  her  own 
observations  to  the  message,  and  quite  bewildered  Mr. 
Andrews.  He  did  not  know  which  was  the  original 
text,  and  which  the  comment  on  it ;  and  Miss  Va  nan's 
cross  fire  did  not  render  matters  simpler. 

"  Here's  the  names  of  the  persons  Miss  "Rothermel 
was  speaking  of,"  Goneril  said,  giving  him  the  paper ; 
"and  the  places  where  you'll  find  'em.  But  my  opin 
ion  is,  you'll  have  your  trouble  for  your  pains,  if  you 
go  hunting  up  Melinda  Larkins.  She'll  never  come  to 
you.  She  won't  undertake  to  live  in  a  family  where 
there  isn't  anybody  to  look  after  things.  Things  go 
wrong  in  every  house,  more  or  less  ;  but  where  there's 
only  Help,  the  troubles  are  laid  to  the  wrong  door,  and 
you  never  know  what  you'll  be  accused  of." 

"  That  is,"  said  Miss  Varian,  sharply,  "  bad  as  a 
mistress  is,  it's  worse  without  a  mistress." 

"  I  don't  know  anything  about  mistresses,"  retorted 
Goneril,  with  a  toss  of  the  head.  "  People  that  you 
live  with  may  call  themselves  anything  they  like. 
That  don't  make  'em  so.  They  might  call  themselves 
em-presses  and  prin-cesses,  but  it  wouldn't  make 
'em  so." 

"And  servants  might  call  themselves  Help,  but 
that  wouldn't  make  them  so.  As. long  as  they  draw 
their  wages  for  the  work  they  do,  they  are  servants, 
and  nothing  more  nor  less  than  servants." 

Poor  Mr.  Andrews  felt  as  if  he  had  got  into  a  very 


THE    SWEETS     OF     VICTORY.  135 

hot  fire,  and  as  if,  somehow,  he  were  guilty  of  having 
lighted  it. 

"I  ought  to  be  going  to  see  about  these — persons 
— I  suppose  ;  if  I  can  get  them  to-night  it  will  be  all 
the  better,"  he  said,  rising,  while  the  discussion  about 
titles  was  still  raging. 

O         O 

"  Well,  you  won't  get  anybody  on  such  short  no 
tice  that's  worth  having,"  Goneril  interrnpted  herself 
'to  say.  "Melinda  Larkins  wouldn't  think  of  taking  a 
place,  without  going  over  to  the  island  to  see  her 
folks  about  it.  She  has  some  self-respect,  if  she  is 
obliged  to  live  out." 

"  If  she  is  obliged  to  go  into  service,  you  mean," 
said  Miss  Varian.  "  There  won't  be  much  difficulty 
about  your  getting  her,  Mr.  Andrews,  I  am  sure.  All 
these  people  are  very  poor,  and  will  do  anything  for 
money." 

"  Money  isn't  everything,"  began  Goneril  ;  but 
Mr.  Andrews  had  got  to  the  hall. 

"  I  can  but  go  and  see  about  them,"  he  said,  as  he 
made  his  bow. 

He  heard  a  rage  of  tongues  as  he  closed  the  door. 
He  felt  as  if  the  flames  were  shooting  out  after  him 
and  scorching  his  very  eyebrows. 

Pie  drew  a  long  breath  when  he  was  out  of  hearing 
of  the  house,  and  under  the  trees  in  the  night  air. 
What  bliss  a  world  without  women  would  be.  Here 
he  was  embroiled  with  three,  after  his  brave  fight  of 
the  morning  too,  which  should  have  won  him  their  ap 
plause.  There  was  no  pleasing  them,  and  their 
tongues — their  tongues.  Pleased  or  displeased,  he 
a -:ked  nothing  better  than  to  get  away  from  them. 
He  thought  for  a  rash  moment  thut  he  would  steal 


136  THE    SWEETS     OF     VICTORY. 

Jay  and  go  away  with  him  to  some  monastery,  and 
leave  Gabby  to  her  fate.  But,  poor  little  Gabby,  he 
was  sorry  for  her,  even  if  she  did  love  to  impart  in 
formation  and  to  make  mischief.  Yes,  he  must  stay  by 
them,  poor  little  mites,  and  try  to  help  them  out  of  their 
dismal  plight.  So  he  went  to  the  stable,  and  saddled 
his  horse,  and  threw  a  severe  order  or  two  to  the  de 
cent  man,  of  whom  he  was  not  afraid. 

Then  he  rode  into  the  jaws  of  fate,  to  see  Melinda 
Larkins,  who  couldn't  make  up  her  mind  in  a  minute  ; 
to  see  the  one  proposed  as  nursery  maid,  who  wasn't 
in  ;  to  see  the  waitress,  who  asked  him  a  great  many 
questions  that  he  couldn't  answer.  "  What  part  of 
the  wash  would  be  hers  ?  What  evening  could  she 
have  ?  Who  was  to  get  tea  Sunday  when  the  cook 
was  out  ?  Was  there  to  be  a  regular  dinner  for  the 
children  in  the  middle  of  the  day,  and  a  regular  din 
ner  again  at  night  ?" 

To  all  these  questions,  and  many  more  as  puzzling, 
Mr.  Andrews  could  give  no  well  considered  answer.  He 
felt  the  necessity  of  appearing  to  know  a  little  about 
the  ordering  of  his  household  ;  his  dealings  with  men 
had  taught  him  that  ignorance  is  fatal  to  authority,  and 
strangely  and  sadly  as  the  sexes  differed,  there  must 
be  some  general  points  of  resemblance.  It  would  not 
do  to  let  this  trim  young  creature,  with  her  black  eyes 
and  her  white  apron,  respectful  as  yet,  standing  at 
the  gate  in  an  attitude  of  attention,  know  that  lie  had 
never  known  who  did  the  wash  in  his  house,  or 
whether  there  was  a  regular  dinner  in  the  middle  of 
the  day,  or  whether  the  cook  ever  went  out,  or  how 
many  evenings  belonged  to  the  waitress.  He  said 
rather  lamely  that  he  had  only  come  to  see  if  she 


THE    SWEETS     OF     VICTORY.  137 

were  disengaged  ;  he  had  not  time  to  talk  these  de 
tails  over.  If  she  were  at  liberty,  she  might  come  the 
next  morning  at  ten,  and  he  would  make  final  arrange 
ments  with  her. 

She  respectfully  consented  to  this,  but  it  is  highly 
probable  that  sh^e  saw  through  the  maneuver,  and 
knew  that  "  time"  was  what  her  future  master  wanted, 
and  that  there  was  a  good  deal  in  her  catechism  that 
was  new  to  him.  Pie  knew,  or  feared  this  knowledge 
on  her  part,  and  went  slowly  away  on  his  milk-white 
steed,  much  humbled  and  perplexed. 

The  decent  man  took  his  horse  and  cared  for  it,  but 
he  let  himself  into  the  house  with  a  feeling  of  his 
helplessness.  He  had  matches,  thanks  to  being  a 
smoker,  but  he  did  not  know  how  to  fill  a  lamp,  and 
of  course  all  the  lamps  were  empty.  Every  one  knows 
that  a  candle  does  not  give  a  cheerful  light  in  a  wide 
room.  So  he  tried  two  candles,  but  they  blinked  at 
each  other  feebly,  they  were  almost  worse  than  one. 
It  was  almost  impossible  to  read  the  evening  paper  ; 
he  would  conclude  it  was  time  to  go  to  bed.  So  he 
poured  himself  out  a  glass  of  wine,  not  having  the 
heart  (or  the  chance)  to  eat  a  meal,  and  went  up 
stairs.  His  bed  had  not  been  made  ;  there  was  no  water 
in  the  pitchers.  The  windows  had  been  closed,  and  the 
room  was  not  fresh.  He  made  up  his  mind  that  he  could 
not  sleep  there  ;  he  went  into  another  room,  entering 
into  a  calculation  how  many  nights  the  beds  would  last, 
and  when  he  should  have  to  take  to  the  sofas. 

Another  day  dawned  on  this  anarchy.  He  had  no 
hot  water  for  his  shaving  ;  he  did  not  know  where 
fresh  towels  were,  the  keys  of  the  closets  being  all  at  the 
bottom  of  the  cistern.  (A  parting  shot  of  malice  from 


138  THK    SWEETS     OF     VICTORY. 

Alj)honsine,  though  he  did  not  know  it.)  After  a 
wretched  bath,  with  towels  in  which  lie  had  no  confi 
dence,  he  went  out  into  the  damp  morning,  and  getting 
on  his  horse,  went  down  to  the  village  barber,  and  then 
to  the  village  inn  for  breakfast. 

"  This  thing  must  not  go  on  any  longer,"  he  said 
with  firmness — but  what  use  was  there  in  being  firm  ? 
He  was  helpless.  What  part  of  the  wash  did  the 
waitress  do  ?  And  what  would  bring  Melinda  Larkins 
to  decision  ?  And  what  questions  would  the  nursery 
maid  elect  be  likely  to  ask  him  ?  He  ground  his  teeth. 
A  plague  upon  them  all.  He  had  made  a  fortune  and 
lost  it  with  less  rack  of  brain  than  this  business  had 
occasioned  him.  If  Miss  Rothermel  only  would  get 
over  her  little  temper  and  come  forward  to  the  rescue. 
He  couldn't  blame  her  for  being  so  indignant,  but  she 
needn't  have  vented  it  on  him,  who  was  not  in  the 
least  to  blame.  There  was  the  waitress  coming  at  ten, 
and  he  had  no  answers  to  give  her  to  her  questions. 
He  had  not  the  face  to  go  to  the  Varians'  house  again, 
indeed,  he  had  not  the  courage,  for  Miss  Varian  and 
her  iron  maid  were  more  likely  to  confront  him  than 
Missy  was,  who  mighn't  yet  be  through  with  her  head 
ache. 

He  rode  slowly  bnck  from  the  village  after  break 
fast,  reflecting  deeply.  As  he  turned  into  the  stable, 
lie  saw  the  welcome  sight  of  Missy,  in  her  shade-hat, 
going  into  the  greenhouse,  with  a  basket  and  some 
scissors.  If  he  could  only  get  her  to  talk  to  him  for 
five  minutes,  all  might  be  got  into  right  shape.  But 
what  sort  of  a  humor  was  she  in  ?  She  had  not  the 
children  with  her — that  was  a  bad  sign.  The  damp 
ness  of  the  early  morning  had  passed  away,  and  the 


THE    SWEETS     OF     VICTORY.  139 

sun  had  come  out  bright,  though  the  dew  was  thick  on 
the  grass.  He  hurried  across  the  lawn  and  entered  the 
garden.  Missy  was  busy  at  the  door  of  the  green 
house,  with  a  vine  that  seemed  not  to  meet  her  ap 
probation.  Her  basket  stood  at  her  feet,  half-full  of 
the  late  blooming  flowers  that  she  had  picked  in  the 
garden  as  she  came  along. 

"  Good  morning,  Miss  Rothermel,"  said  Mr.  An 
drews,  rather  irresolutely,  pausing  behind  her.  She 
had  not  heard  his  approach,  and  started.  He  felt  that 
it  was  unwarrantable,  his  coming  in  this  way  into 
the  garden  ;  but  starvation  and  perplexity  and  want 
of  shaving-water  will  drive  a  man  to  almost  anything. 
If  he  had  gone  to  the  house  she  \\ould  have  refused 
to  see  him.  If  she  refused  to  speak  to  him  now,  he 
should  simply  hang  himself.  She  looked  quite  haughty 
as  she  faced  him  ;  but  he  looked  so  troubled  and  so 
humbled,  it  was  impossible  to  be  haughty  long. 

"  I  hope  you'll  excuse  my  coming  to  bother  you 
again,"  he  said  ;  "but  upon  my  word,  I  don't  know 
how  I  am  going  to  get  my  matters  straight  without 
some  help  from  you.  I  know  it  is  quite  unjustifi 
able,  and  you  have  quite  a  right  to  tell  me  so." 

"No,"  said  Missy,  with  rigid  honesty,  "I  offered 
you  my  advice.  I  remember  that  quite  well.  I  have 
only  myself  to  blame  if  you  give  me  any  trouble." 

"And  I  am  sure  I  needn't  tell  you  how  very 
sorry  I  am  about  the  occurrence  of  yesterday.  I 
would  have  done  anything  to  have  saved  you  that 
annoyance." 

But  Mr.  Andrews  saw  that  he'd  better  have  left 
the  subject  alone.  All  the  softening  vanished  from 
her  expression. 


140  THE    SWEETS     OF     VICTORY. 

"No  one  was  to  blame  for  that,"  she  said.  "  It  need 
never  be  thought  of  again."  But  it  was  evident  the 
recollection  of  it  had  put  her  back  into  her  armor. 

Mr.  Andrews  felt  a  momentary  indignation  at  her 
injustice  ;  but  his  straits  were  too  sore  for  him  to 
cherish  indignation.  "  If  it  were  not  for  the  children," 
he  said,  "  I  would  close  the  house  at  once,  and  go 
away.  Gabrielle  would  be  better  off  perhaps  at  board 
ing-school  ;  but  Jay  is  such  a  baby.  Still,  I  suppose 
that  might  not  be  a  difficulty." 

"He  does  seem  rather  young  to  send  among  stran 
gers,"  she  replied  coldly,  snipping  down  a  fading 
branch  of  the  climbing  rose,  and  throwing  it  aside. 

"  But  on  some  accounts,  as  I  was  saying  to  you  the 
other  day,  I  would  much  prefer  keeping  them  together, 
and  having  them  with  me  for  the  present." 

"  It  would  be  pleasanter,  perhaps,"  said  Miss  Roth- 
ermel,  with  distant  but  faint  interest. 

"What  I  want  to  ask  you,"  he  went  on  desperately, 
"  is  whether  you  think  a  household  could  be  kept  to 
gether,  with  any  comfort  or  profit  to  the  children,  with 
out  any  greater  knowledge  and  experience  on  my  part. 
I  mean,"  he  said  confusedly,  "could  they  get  on  with 
out  a  governess,  or  a  housekeeper,  or  some  one  to  be 
at  the  head  of  affairs  ?  Could  three  or  four  women  get 
on,  that  is,  without  some  one  in  authority  over  them  ?  " 

"  Why,  what  is  to  prevent  you  from  being  in 
authority  over  them  ?"  said  Missy,  almost  contempt 
uously.  "That  is,  if  you  are  willing  to  take  the 
trouble  of  thinking  about  things." 

"I  am  very  willing  to  think  about  things,  but  I  am 
sorry  to  say  I  am  so  ignorant  that  my  thoughts  are  not 
likely  to  be  profitable." 


THE    SWEETS     OF     VICTORY.  141 

"  Knowledge  is  power,"  said  Missy,  clipping  another 
dry  leaf  off. 

"That  is  very  true,  Miss  Rothermel,"  lie  said,  with 
a  smile.  "  I  am  sure  you  feel  yours.  But  be  good 
enough  to  help  me.  Tell  me,  to  begin  with,  what  I 
am  to  say  to  the  waitress,  who  is  to  come  to  see  roe  in 
half  an  hour.  She  asks  me  questions  that  I  don't  know 
how  to  answer." 

"  Well,  what  are  some  of  them,  pray  ?  " 

"  Why,  as  we  are  not  to  keep  a  laundress,  what  part 
of  the  washing  she  must  do  ?" 

"  The  fine  clothes,  of  course." 

"  I  don't  believe  we  have  any  fine  clothes  in  the 
house.  I  think  everything  is  very  plain." 

"  Oh,  that  is  a  technical  expression.  It  means  the 
starched  clothes.  Say  that  to  her  and  she'll  under 
stand.  The  cook  is  to  do  the  coarse  washing." 

"  Ah,  yes  ;  I  see.  Well,  she  wants  to  know  about 
dinner — am  I  to  have  a  regular  dinner,  and  are  the 
children  to  have  a  regular  dinner  in  the  middle  of  the 
day?  Now,  what  does  a  regular  dinner  mean  when  a 
waitress  talks  about  it  ?  and  what  ought  the  children 
to  have  for  their  dinner?" 

"  Why,  it  means,"  said  Missy,  "  are  the  children  to 
have  scraps  and  a  jumbled-up  lunch,  all  on  the  table 
together — or,  are  they  to  have  soup,  and  a  nice  steak, 
and  some  vegetables,  and  a  pudding,  and  fare  like 
Christians.  I  hope  you  settled  that  question  for  her." 

"  I  will  settle  it,  now  that  I  know  what  she  means. 
Thank  you.  And  what  wages  is  she  to  have?  And 
who  is  to  serve  tea  on  Sunday  nights  ?  And  how  often 
must  she  go  out  ;  and  when  she  goes  out  who  is  to  do 
her  work  ?" 


142  THE    SWEETS     OF     VICTORY. 

"Tell  her  she  is  to  go  out  every  other  Sunday,  and 
the  cook  is  to  serve  tea  in  her  place  on  that  night. 
And  one  evening  in  the  week  she  can  go  out.  And  as 
the  nurse  will  go  out  on  one  evening  also,  she  must  ar 
range  with  her  what  that  evening  shall  be.  And  on 
the  nurse's  evening  out,  she  must  sit  up  stairs  and  look 
after  the  children." 

"  Thank  you.  That  looks  plainer.  I  believe  it 
was  all  she  asked  me.  If  I  see  the  woman  you  thought 
might  do  for  nurse,  what  questions  will  she  be  likely  to 
ask  me  ?  " 

"  Why,  I  don't  know  ;  but  you  must  be  prepared 
to  say,  she  is  to  do  all  the  mending,  and  take  the  en 
tire  charge  of  the  children,  and  of  their  clothes.  And 
besides  must  teach  them  their  letters  and  spelling  every 
day  for  an  hour,  and  must  assist  in  waiting  on  them  at 
their  meals,  for  Jay  needs  some  one  every  moment. 
But  she  is  a  sensible  girl,  and  I  am  sure  you  will  have 
no  trouble  with  her.  She  won't  be  likely  to  ask  you 
many  questions." 

"  I  am  glad  of  that,"  said  Mr.  Andrews,  growing 
lighter-hearted.  "There  is  one  thing  more.  You  feel 
•  certain,  Miss  Rothermel,  that  three  women  can  do  the 
work?  You  know  there  have  hitherto  been  live — " 

Miss  Rothermel  looked  contemptuous  again.  "  That 
depends,"  she  said,  "  entirely  upon  your  wishes.  Three 
women  are  all  you  need.  You  might  have  eight,  but 
I  don't  think  they'd  add  to  your  comfort." 

"I  am  sure  you  are  right,"  he  said,  apologetically. 
"  All  I  mean  is,  will  they  be  coming  to  me  every 
day  or  two  and  saying  they  have  too  much  to  do,  and 
excusing  themselves  in  that  manner  for  neglecting  their 
work  ?" 


THE    SWEETS     OF     VICTORY.  143 

"  That  depends,  again,  upon  what  you  say  to  them, 
if  they  do  come.  If  you  never  give  in  to  any  demands 
for  more  wages,  and  make  them  fully  understand  that 
you  mean  to  keep  three  servants  in  the  house  and  no 
more,  you  will  not  have  any  trouble.  It  will  be  an 
easy  place  ;  they  will  be  very  glad  to  stay.  These 
three  that  I  have  told  you  of,  are  all  good  servants.  I 
don't  see  any  reason  that  Jay — that  you  all — I  mean — 
shouldn't  be  quite  comfortable." 

Mr.  Andrews  knew  very  well  that  all  her  solicitude 
was  for  Jay.  He  did  not  care,  however.  He  was  will 
ing  to  get  comfort,  even  over  his  son's  shoulder. 

"I  can't  tell  you  how  much  obliged  to  you  I  am," 
he  said.  "  Your  aunt's  maid  has  rather  frightened  me 
about  my  cook  elect.  Do  you  think  there  will  be  any 
difficulty  in  getting  her  to  consent  to  come  ?" 

"I  don't  know  why  there  should  be." 

"  Perhaps,  if  you  would  say  a  word  to  her,  she  might 
be  influenced." 

Missy  grew  lofty  at  once.  She  bad  evidently 
washed  her  hands  of  the  matter. 

"  I  don't  know  anything  to  say  to  her  to  induce  her 
to  come  if  she  is  not  induced  by  the  prospect  of  a  good 
home  and  good  wages.  She  will  probably  come." 

"  And  the  nurse  ;  is  she  not  a  sort  of  protegee  of 
yours?  Perhaps  if  you  would  kindly  give  her  some 
idea  of  her  duties  it  might  help  her." 

This  Mr.  Andrews  said  maliciously,  for  he  had  a 
man's  contempt  for  caprice,  and  he  could  see  nothing 
but  caprice  in  Miss  Rothermel's  washing  her  hands  of 
his  affairs.  Two  days  ago  she  had  advised  him,  urged 
him,  made  up  his  cabinet  for  him.  And  now  she  only 
tolerated  an  allusion  to  the  subject.  It  was  not  hia 


144  THE    SWEETS     OF     VICTORY. 

fault  that  the  servants  she  had  made  him  send  away 
had  been  saucy  to  her.  lie  was  not  inclined  to  submit 
to  such  airs  (now  that  he  had  got  his  questions  answered 
and  there  was  a  reasonable  prospect  of  hot  water  and 
clean  towels). 

"  She  is  not  a  protegee  of  mine  at  all,"  returned 
Missy.  "All  I  know  about  her,  however,  is  in  her 
favor.  She  will,  I  think,  take  good  care  of  the  chil 
dren.  She  will  take  her  instructions  best  from  you,  and 
she  has  intelligence  enough  to  till  up  details  of  which 
you  are  ignorant  necessarily." 

Mr.  Andrews  bowed,  and  Missy  filled  up  the  gap  in 
the  conversation  by  snipping  off  some  more  dead  leaves. 
There  seemed  really  nothing  for  him  to  do  but  to  go 
away,  and  he  was  just  preparing  to  do  this  when  the 
children  rushed  upon  the  scene.  Jay  pounced  upon 
Missy,  and  nearly  threw  her  down  ;  she  looked  slight 
and  small,  stretching  up  her  arm  to  a  high  branch  of 
the  vine,  and  the  little  ruffian  probably  felt  his  supe 
riority  and  used  it. 

"You  are  a  naughty  boy,"  she  said,  picking  up  her 
hat  and  the  scissors  which  he  had  thrown  to  the  ground, 
but  she  did  not  say  it  very  severely. 

"  Why  did  you  go  away  without  me  ?  "  he  said, 
kicking  at  her  glove,  which  lay  upon  the  gravel  walk. 

"  Because  I  didn't  want  you,"  she  returned. 
Gabrielle  had  crept  up  to  her  father,  and  was  eying 
Missy  and  Jay  with  sidelong  observation.  "  Jay  said 
something  very  bad  this  morning,"  she  said,  including 
her  father  in  her  circuitous  glance.  Her  father  natur 
ally  felt  suspicious  of  Gabrielle's  information  ;  it  was 
generally  of  a  nature  far  from  pleasing.  He  therefore 
passed  over  her  remark  without  notice,  and  putting  out 


THE    SWEKTS     OF    VICTORY.  145 

his  hand  to  Jay,  said,  "Well,  you  haven't  spoken  to  me 
this  morning.  I  think  you  have  forgotten  that  you 
haven't  seen  me." 

"Holloa!  how  are  you?"  cried  Jay,  catching  at 
his  father's  hand  with  both  his,  and  trying  to  climb 
up  his  leg.  His  hat  fell  off  in  the  exertion,  and  his 
yellow  hair,  fresh  from  Goneril's  brushing,  blew  about 
in  the  breeze. 

"He  said  he  didn't  want  to  go  home  to  you, 
papa,"  persisted  Gabrielle. 

"He  didn't  !  there's  affection  for  you,"  said  the 
father,  carelessly,  with  both  hands  now  holding  the 
boy,  who  chose  to  walk  up  him. 

"He  said — "  and  now  Missy  began  to  tremble. 
"He  said  he  wouldn't  go  away  from  Missy." 

"  Thank  you,  Jay,"  said  Missy,  looking  at  the  boy 
with  a  bright  smile,  and  some  relief.  "  They'd  better 
let  you  stay  with  me  if  that's  the  way  you  feel." 

"  O  no,"  cried  the  little'  viper,  "  we  couldn't  spare 
Jay.  You  could  do  like  Alphonsine  said  you  wanted  to 
do,  come  to  our  house  and  live  with  us,  and  have 
things  all  your  own  way.  You  know  she  said  that 
was  what  you  were  working  for.  Don't  you  remem 
ber,  Missy  ?  Just  before  Moses  started  up  the  horses." 

Jay  had  made  the  ascent  of  his  father  and  stood 
in  triumph  on  his  shoulder.  Mr.  Andrews  with  a 
rapid  movement  put  him  on  the  ground,  made  a  step 
forward  and  brought  his  hand  with  force  on  Gabrielle's 
cheek,  a  hard  stinging  blow  that  made  the  child 
scream  with  pain  and  amazement,  for  he  had  never 
struck  her  before. 

"  Never  repeat  to  me  the  words  of  servants,"  he 
said,  in  a  voice  terrible  to  her,  and  severe  enough  iu 


146  THE    SWEETS     OF     VICTORY. 

the  ears  of  others,  especially  little  Jay,  who  looked 
awe-struck.  There  was  a  seat  outside  the  greenhouse 
door,  and  on  this  Missy  had  sunk  down,  trembling  all 
over.  She  opened  her  lips  and  tried  to  speak,  but 
literally  she  could  not,  the  sudden  agitation  had  taken 
away  her  voice.  Meanwhile  Gabrielle  had  found  hers, 
and  was  crying  passionately,  very  angry  at  the  blow, 
and  very  sure  too,  that  crying  was  the  way  to  get  the 
better  of  her  father.  But  this  time  she  was  mistaken. 
He  took  her  hand  almost  roughly. 

"  Come  with  me,"  he  said.  "  I  have  something  more 
to  teach  you." 

His  voice  was  rather  unsteady  from  anger,  his  face 
flushed,  and  his  eye  stern.  No  wonder  Gabrielle's  cry 
sank  into  a  frightened  whimper,  as  she  followed,  or 
was  half  dragged  away  by  her  father.  Jay  ran  up  to 
Missy,  and  tried  to  climb  into  her  lap.  With  an 
impulse  that  the  poor  little  fellow  could  not  under 
stand,  of  course,  she  pushed  him  away.  It  was  the 
first  repulse  he  had  ever  had  from  her  :  though  he  was 
still  in  petticoats,  his  pride  and  wounded  affection 
were  strong  ;  he  would  not  wait  for  a  second  rebuff. 
He  started  down  the  path,  crying,  Papa.  Missy  saw 
him  overtake  his  father  as  he  crossed  the  lawn,  and 
cling  to  his  hand,  hardly  able  to  keep  up  with  his  rapid 
walk.  And  so,  with  a  child  ifl  each  hand,  he  passed 
out  of  the  gate  and  disappeared  from  Missy's  sight. 

She  sat  still  for  a  few  minutes,  and  tried  to  collect 
her  thoughts.  She  felt  as  if  some  one  had  given  her 
a  blow  on  her  ear,  and  sent  all  the  blood  tingling  to 
her  brain.  Finally  she  got  up,  picked  up  Jay's  hat, 
which  he  had  left  on  the  field,  and  the  scissors,  and 
the  basket,  which  had  been  overturned  in  the  melee. 


THE    SWEETS     OF     VICTORY.  147 

She  put  the  flowers  back  into  it,  angry  and  ashamed 
to  see  how  her  hand  shook,  and  shutting  the  green 
house  door,  slowly  wont  out  of  the  garden.  Where 
should  she  go  to  get  away  from  every  one,  and  be  by 
herself  for  a  little  while?  If  she  went  to  the  beach, 
thither  the  children  might  come  in  a  few  moments. 
If  to  the  lawn,  she  was  a  fair  mark  for  visitors  and 
servants,  and  the  walk  through  the  cedars  would  bring 
all  back — the  interview  there  three  days  ago,  whence 
all  her  troubles  dated.  Her  own  room  was  the  best 
place  for  her. 

She  put  down  the  flowers  in  the  hall,  and  went  up 
stairs  under  a  running  fire  from  Goneril,  Aunt  Harriet 
and  her  mother,  dispersed  about  the  lower  rooms  and 
hall. 

It  is  astonishing  how  much  unnecessary  talking  is 
done  in  a  house,  how  many  useless  questions  asked, 
how  many  senseless  observations  made.  Just  be  very 
unhappy,  overstrained  or  anxious,  and  you  will  find 
out  how  many  idle  words  are  spoken  in  an  hour,  if  you 
happen  to  be  bearing  your  burden  among  happy,  un 
strained,  and  careless  people. 

It  seemed  to  Missy,  calling  out  her  answers  in  as 
brave  a  voice  as  she  could,  going  through  the  house, 
that  never  were  questions  so  useless,  observations  so 
senseless. 

"  Where  are  you  going  ?"  was  among  the  last  of 
her  mother's. 

"  To  my  room  ;  and  don't  let  me  be  disturbed, 
please.  I  want  to  be  quiet  for  awhile." 

"Another  headache?"  cried  Aunt  Harriet  from  the 
hall  below.  "  Really,  this  is  becoming  serious.  I 
never  knew  you  were  capable  of  headaches." 


148  THE    SWEETS     OF     VICTORY. 

"  Thank  yon"  said  Missy,  shutting  her  door  and 
sliding  the  bolt.  She  sat  down  in  a  chair  by  the  win 
dow  and  gazed  out  ;  but  she  did  not  see  the  soft  velvet 
of  the  lawn,  nor  the  blue  dimples  of  the  bay  against 
which  the  great  trunks  of  the  trees  stood  out. 

There  were  some  sails  flitting  about  in  the  fresh 
wind,  but  she  did  not  see  them.  She  was  trying  to 
collect  her  thonghts  and  get  over  that  blow  on  the  ear 
that  she  felt  as  if  she  had  had.  It  was  new  to  her 
not  to  go  to  her  mother  and  confide  her  trouble  ;  but 
this  was  a  sort  of  humiliation  she  could  not  bring  her 
self  to  talk  about.  She  excused  herself  by  saying  it 
would  only  distress  mamma.  It  would  have  distressed 
mamma's  daughter  so  much  to  have  given  words  to 
it  that  she  never  even  allowed  to  herself  that  it 
might  be  a  duty.  It  was  all  a  punishment,  she  said 
to  herself,  for  having  received  on  terms  of  kindness  a 
man  who  had  behaved  so  to  his  wife  ;  that  was  a  breach 
of  friendship.  It  was  something  to  bear  in  silence,  to 
be  hushed  up,  and  forgotten,  if  it  could  be,  even  by 
herself.  She  wished  that  she  might  go  away. 

She  got  up  and  walked  across  the  room — im 
pulsively.  Then  sat  down  again,  with  the  bitter  re 
flection  that  it  was  only  men  who  could  go  away. 
Women  have  to  sit  down  and  bear  their  disappoint 
ments,  their  mortifications,  their  defeats  ;  to  sit  down 
in  the  sight  of  them  and  forget  them  if  they  can.  Men 
can  pack  their  tender  sensibilities  into  their  valises, 
and  go  off  and  see  that  the  world  is  wide,  and  contains 
other  subjects  of  thought  and  interest  than  the  ones 
they  have  been  brooding  over. 

Go  away  !  No  indeed  ;  she  laughed  bitterly  when 
she  thought  of  the  commotion  that  would  result  from 


THE    SWEETS     OF     VICTORY.  149 

the  mentioning  such  a  plan.  St.  John  might  walk  in 
any  day,  and  say  he  was  going  on  a  journey.  No  one 
would  question  his  right  to  go,  or  his  right  to  decline 
giving  any  reasons  for  so  going.  He  was  seven  years 
younger  than  she  was,  but  he  was  free.  She  must  ac 
count  for  all  her  goings,  her  doings  ;  even  the  people 
in  the  village  would  sit  in  judgment  on  her,  if  she  did 
anything  that  was  not  clearly  explained  to  them  and 
proved  expedient.  No — she  was  tied,  bound  to  Yellow- 
coats.  All  their  plans  were  laid  to  remain  at  home 
for  the  winter. 

Since  St.  John  had  come  to  the  parish,  they 
had  decided  it  was  unnecessary  to  make  their  annual 
change  ;  Missy  had  not  cared  for  the  winter  in  town, 
Mrs.  Varian  had  been  glad  to  be  let  off  from  it,  Aunt 
Harriet  had  submitted  to  give  it  up.  So  here  she  was 
to  stay,  and  here  it  was  possible  the  Andrews'  would 
stay,  and  here  she  must  daily  see  the  children  and  pass 
the  house,  and  be  reminded  that  she  had  been  insulted, 
and  had  been  a  fool.  It  would  be  the  village  talk. 
All  her  past  dignity  and  her  grand  disdain  of  lovers 
would  pass  for  nothing.  She  had  never  entered  the 
lists  with  other  young  women  ;  she  had  prided  herself 
on  her  determination  not  to  marry.  "I  am  not  in  com 
mission,"  she  would  say  loftily  to  the  younger  girls, 
making  the  most  of  her  age. 

The  few  suitors  who,  so  far,  had  come  to  her,  had 
been  detestable  to  her.  She  did  not  deserve  much 
credit  for  rejecting  them,  but  she  took  a  good  deal 
to  herself,  feeling  sure  that  she  would,  in  the  same 
way,  have  discarded  princes.  Of  course,  she  had 
had  her  dreams  about  true  love,  but  she  had  early  de 
cided  that  that  was  not  to  come  to  her,  and  that  she 


150  THE    SWEETS     OF     VICTORY. 

had  a  different  sort  of  life  to  live.  Being  very  fond 
of  plans  and  arrangements  of  all  kinds,  it  was  a  great 
satisfaction  to  her  to  feel  she  was  building  up  the  sort 
of  life  that  she  was  intended  for,  that  she  was  daily 
adding  to  its  usefulness  and  symmetry.  My  will  be 
done,  she  was  saying,  unconsciously,  in  her  daily 
thought,  if  not  in  her  morning  and  evening  prayer. 
Yes,  it  was  a  very  beautiful,  a  very  noble  life  she  was 
constructing,  very  devoid  of  self,  she  thought.  She 
was  living  for  others  ;  was  not  that  fine  ?  She  was 
quite  above  the  petty  ambitions  and  humiliations  of 
her  sex.  She  did  not  mean  to  marry,  in  deference  to 
the  world's  opinion,  or  in  terror  of  its  scorn.  All  the 
same,  she  knew  very  well  people  held  her  very  high, 
and  were  not  ignorant  that  she  could  have  married 
well  if  she  had  chosen.  She  did  not  think  that  this 
was  of  any  importance  to  her,  till  she  found  what  pain 
it  gave  her  to  think  that  people  would  now  be  of  a 
different  mind.  Had  it  come  to  this,  that  it  could  be 
said  she  was  only  too  ready  to  fall  into  the  arms  of  a 
month-old  widower,  stout  and  elderly  !  Yes,  that  was 
what  the  people  in  the  village — the  gentlemen  going 
down  in  the  cars,  the  ladies  in  their  morning  drives — 
would  say.  The  scene  with  the  stage  load  of  servants 
would  be  in  possession  of  all  these  by  to-morrow,  if  it 
were  not  so  to-day.  She  knew  the  ability  of  Yellow- 
coats  to  absorb  news,  as  a  sponge  absorbs  water  ; — it 
would  look  very  fair  and  dry,  but  touch  it,  squeeze  it, 
ah,  bah.  Yellowcoats  could  take  in  anything,  from 
the  smallest  detail  to  the  most  exaggerated  improba 
bility.  She  had  spent  her  life  in  Yellowcoats,  and  she 
knew  it.  From  highest  to  lowest  it  craved  a  sensa 
tion,  and  would  sacrifice  its  best  and  choicest  to  fill  up 


THE    SWEETS     OF     VICTORY.  151 

the  gaping  vacancy.  She  knew  how  good  the  story 
was,  she  knew  how  much  foundation  it  seemed  to 
have.  What  could  she  ever  do  to  contradict  it  ? 
Nothing.  No  word  of  it  would  ever  reach  her  ears. 
She  would  be  treated  with  the  old  deference,  but  she 
would  know  the  laugh  that  underlaid  it.  She  had  no 
chance  of  contradicting  what  no  one  would  say  to  her. 
And  in  action,  what  could  she  do  ?  If  she  refused 
ever  to  see  the  children  again,  declined  abruptly  all 
intercourse  with  their  neighbors,  it  would  only  be  said, 
with  more  emphasis  than  ever,  that  she  had  met  with 
sudden  discouragement  ;  that  the  gentleman  had  be 
come  alarmed  at  her  ardent  interest  in  his  household 
matters,  and  had  withdrawn  abruptly  from  even  ordi 
nary  civilities.  If  she  still  went  on  as  before,  appear 
ing  daily  with  the  children  in  the  carriage,  taking 
them  to  church  with  her,  it  would  be  said  she  was  still 
pursuing  the  chase,  was  still  cherishing  hopes  of  pro 
motion.  Whatever  she  did,  it  was  all  one.  She 
couldn't  publish  a  card  in  the  paper,  she  couldn't  go 
about  and  tell  people  they  had  been  misinformed, 
when  they  didn't  acknowledge  to  any  information  at 
all.  The  only  thing  she  could  do  was  to  marry  some 
one  else  out  of  hand,  and  that  she  felt  she  was  almost 
prepared  to  do,  if  any  one  else  were  to  be  had  on  a 
moment's  notice.  But  all  her  few  men  were  dead 
men,  and  there  was  not  a  new  one  to  be  had  for  the 
wishing. 

It  was  surely  a  very  trying  situation,  and  Missy 
shed  bitter  tears  about  it,  and  felt  she  hated,  hated, 
hated  this  strange  widower,  whom  she  persisted  in 
calling  stout  and  elderly,  as  if  that  were  the  worst 
thing  that  a  man  could  be.  She  knew  him  so  slightly, 


152  TUE    SWEETS     OF     VICTORY. 

she  hated  him  so  deeply.  What  business  had  he  to 
humiliate  her  so?  Though,  to  do  him  justice,  it  had 
not  been  his  fault ;  he  had  only  been  the  instrument 
of  her  chastisement.  These  tantalizing  thoughts  were 
interrupted,  in  the  course  of  an  hour,  by  Ann,  bring 
ing  her  a  letter.  Missy  sat  down  to  read  it,  knowing 
it  was  from  Mr.  Andrews. 

"It  seems  fated,"  he  wrote,  "  that  you  are  to  suf 
fer  for  your  kindness  to  my  children.  It  is  needless 
for  me  to  tell  you  how  much  mortification  I  feel  on 
account  of  my  little  girl's  misconduct.  I  am  sure  your 
kind  heart  has  already  made  many  excuses  for  her, 
and  has  divined  how  great  my  chagrin  is  at  finding 
her  capable  of  such  wrong  dispositions.  I  have  to  re 
mind  myself  very  often  that  her  life  has  been  what  it 
has,  through  no  fault  of  hers,  else  I  might  feel  harshly 
towards  her.  I  know  very  well  that  you  will  agree 
with  me  that  it  is  best  that  the  children  should  tres 
pass  no  more  on  your  hospitality,  after  the  return  that 
they  have  made.  I  have  put  them  into  the  nursery.  The 
servant  who  has  to  come  to  see  me  this  morning,  has 
engaged  to  return  to  me  in  an  hour's  time.  I  have  no 
doubt  she  will  be  capable  of  taking  care  of  them  till  I 
can  secure  the  nurse  and  cook.  At  any  rate,  it  is  but 
just  that  you  should  be  free  from  them,  and  I  beg  you 
will  have  no  further  thought  about  the  matter,  except 
to  believe  that  I  am  deeply  sorry  for  the  annoyance 
that  your  generosity  has  brought  upon  you. 
"Always  faithfully  yours, 

"JAMES  ANDREWS." 

Missy's  first  feeling  after  reading  this  was,  that  he 


THE    SWEETS     OF     VICTORY.  1,>3 

had  at  least  behaved  well  about  it,  and  had  put  things 
in  the  best  shape  for  her.  It  was  the  better  way 
surely,  for  the  children  to  stay  away  altogether  now. 
She  felt  she  could  not  bear  the  sight  of  Gabrielle,  and 
the  chance  of  having  to  meet  Mr.  Andrews  himself 
was  insupportable.  Yes,  it  was  the  best  way,  and  she 
hoped  that  they  might  never,  never  cross  each  other's 
paths  again. 

Perhaps  he  would  close  the  house  and  go  away. 
She  hoped  her  precious  protegees  would  not  give  him 
satisfaction,  and  then  he  would  have  to  go  away. 
But  then  came  second  thoughts,  soberer  and  less  hope 
ful.  Was  it  best  for  the  children  to  stay  at  home  to 
day  ?  How  explain  to  the  household,  beginning  with 
her  mother,  this  sudden  change  of  base  ?  What 
would  Goneril  say,  the  glib-tongued  Ann,  and  all  the 
rest  ?  It  looked  like  a  quarrel,  a  breach,  a  sensation. 
Gabrielle  would  be  questioned  over  the  hedge  ;  the 
whole  story  would  get  out.  No  ;  this  would  never  do. 
The  children's  clothes  were  in  the  drawers  of  the 
spare  room,  their  playthings  all  about  the  house.  The 
packing  these  and  sending  them  back  so  abruptly, 
would  be  like  a  rocket  shot  into  the  sky,  a  signal  of 
sensation  to  all  Yellowcoats. 

And  then,  proving  how  real  her  affection  for  Jay 
was,  there  came  a  feeling  of  solicitude  for  him,  shut 
up  in  that  damp  nursery.  It  always  had  been  damp, 
and  she  had  disapproved  it  ;  the  worst  room  in  the 
house,  with  trees  close  up  to  the  window,  and  no  sun 
in  it. 

The  house  had  been  shut  up  for  several  days,  and 
in  September,  that  does  not  do  for  country  houses  by 
the  water.  The  Varians  had  fire  morning  and  evening, 
7* 


154  THE    SWEETS     OF     VICTORY. 

and  Jay  had  been  dressed  every  day  since  she  had  had 
the  charge  of  him,  by  a  bright  little  blaze  of  pine 
and  hickory.  It  would  be  an  hour  before  the  woman 
came,  and  what  would  she  get  together  for  their  din 
ner.  Some  poor  baker's  bread,  perhaps,  and  some 
sweetmeats.  Jay,  poor  little  man,  would  be  hungry 
before  this  time,  she  was  sure.  How  he  was  fretting 
and  crying  now,  no  doubt  ;  kicking  his  little  bare  legs 
against  the  chair. 

Missy  yearned  over  him,  and  she  thought,  with  a 
pang,  how  she  had  pushed  him  away  when  he  came 
climbing  into  her  lap.  If  he  were  left  there,  with  no 
one  to  take  proper  care  of  him  for  two  or  three  days, 
she  knew  perfectly  well  he  would  be  ill.  His  hands 
had  been  a  little  hot  that  morning,  with  all  the  care 
that  she  had  given  him.  To-day  was  Saturday.  It  was 
not  likely  that  the  new  women  could  be  got  into  the 
house  before  Monday.  No,  she  could  not  put  poor 
little  Jay  into  all  this  danger,  to  save  her  pride.  So, 
after  a  good  cry,  the  result  of  this  softened  feeling, 
she  wrote  the  following  little  note  to  Mr.  Andrews  : 

"I  think  you  would  do  better  let  the  children 
come  back  and  stay  here  till  Monday.  By  that  time  you 
will  no  doubt  have  the  servants  in  the  house.  When 
you  are  ready  for  them,  please  send  me  a  few  lines  and 
I  will  send  Goneril  in  with  them." 

She  hoped  she  had  made  it  plain  that  he  was  to 
keep  out  of  the  way,  and  as  he  had  not  merited  stupid 
in  addition  to  stout  and  elderly,  she  felt  quite  confi 
dent  he  would  understand.  She  began  several  sen 
tences  which  were  meant  to  imply,  from  a  pinnacle, 
that  she  did  not  blame  him  for  the  stings  of  his  little 
viper,  and  that  no  more  need  be  said  about  it.  But 


THE    SWEETS     OF     VICTORY.  155 

none  of  them  satisfied  her,  and  she  put  the  note  into 
the  envelope  without  anything  but  the  bare  statement 
of  facts  recorded  above.  Then  she  took  Jay's  hat, 
which  she  had  brought  in  with  her  from  the  garden, 
and  calling  Ann,  told  her  to  take  the  note  and  the 
hat  in  to  Mr.  Andrews. 

"  The  children  are  there,  I  think,"  she  added  care 
lessly,  in  explanation.  "  Jay  ran  off  without  his 
hat." 

She  had  bathed  her  eyes  before  she  rang  the  bell, 
that  Ann  might  not  see  she  had  been  crying.  By 
and  by  Jay  came  in,  accompanied  by  the  new  waitress, 
who  explained  from  her  master  that  Miss  Gabrielle  was 
under  punishment  and  was  not  to  have  any  dinner. 
She  would  come  back- at  bedside.  Jay  looked  a  little 
doubtfully  at  Missy.  He  had  not  forgotten  his  re 
pulse.  When  the  woman  had  gone  out  of  the  door, 
she  said, 

"Come  Jay,  I  think  we'd  better  be  friends,  old 
fellow,"  and  taking  him  in  her  arms,  kissed  him  a 
dozen  times.  Jay  felt  as  if  a  great  cloud  had  lifted 
off  the  landscape.  Why  had  everybody  been  so 
horrid  ?  There  must  have  been  something  the  matter 
with  people.  He  gave  a  great  sigh  as  he  sank  back 
in  Missy's  embrace,  but  only  said,  "  I  want  some 
dinner." 


156  PER    ASPERA     AD    ASTRA. 

CHAPTER  X. 

PER  ASPERA  AD  ASTRA. 


HE  next  day  was  Sunday,  a  chilly  September 
day,  threatening  rain.  Missy  quite  wished 
it  would  rain,  and  then  there  would  be  an 
excuse  for  omitting  the  children's  church- 
going.  But  church  time  approached.  It  did  not  rain, 
indeed,  looked  as  if  it  were  to  be  a  prolonged  sulk, 
and  not  a  burst  of  tears.  So  the  carriage  was  ordered, 
the  children  made  ready,  and  MissVarian  and  Goneril, 
armed  with  prayer-books,  waited  on  the  piazza.  The 
children  looked  very  pretty  in  their  mourning.  Gabri- 
elle  was  so  handsome,  she  repaid  any  care  in  dressing 
her,  and  Alphonsine  had  really  exerted  herself  to  make 
up  a  pretty  black  dress,  and  trim  a  hat  for  her.  There 
is  always  something  pathetic  in  the  sight  of  young 
children  in  mourning,  and  Missy  had  almost  cried  the 
first  time  she  saw  Jay  in  his  little  black  kilt  and 
with  that  somber  cap  on  his  yellow  curls.  She  was 
quite  used  to  it  now,  and  did  not  feeling  like  crying 
from  anything  but  vexation,  as  she  came  out  on  the 
piazza  when  she  heard  the  carriage  wheels  approach 
ing.  She  was  going  to  church,  to  be  sure,  and  that 
ought  to  have  been  soothing  to  her  feelings.  But  she 
was  also  going  to  face  the  little  populace  of  Yellowcoats, 
and  that  was  very  ruffling  to  them.  She  felt  it  was 
a  pity  she  could  not  make  herself  invisible,  and  that 
her  neighbors  could  not  make  themselves  invisible  too. 
She  was  sure  they  would  say  better  prayers  if  that 


PER  ASPERA  AD  ASTRA.       157 

could  be  the  case.  How  they  would  gaze  at  her  as  she 
walked  down  the  aisle  !  How  glances  would  be  ex 
changed,  and  nudges  given,  as  the  little  black-clad 
children  came  in  sight.  It  is  all  very  well  to  say,  don't 
think  of  such  things  if  you  know  you're  doing  right.  It 
takes  a  very  advanced  saint  not  to  mind  what  people 
think,  and  Missy,  poor  Missy,  was  not  that.  She 
longed  to  say  her  prayers,  and  felt  she  had  never 
needed  to  say  them  more  ;  but  it  was  as  if  a  thousand 
little  devils,  with  as  many  little  prongs,  were  busy  in  a 
swarm  around  her.  To  add  to  all  her  fretting  thoughts, 
Aunt  Harriet  was  particularly  trying,  Goneril  was 
more  audacious,  the  children  were  exasperating,  even 
sitting  still  and  in  their  Sunday  clothes. 

As  the  carriage  rolled  up  to  the  church  gate, 
Missy  felt  her  face  growing  red  and  white  with  ap 
prehension  of  the  eyes  that  would  in  a  moment  more 
be  looking  at  it.  The  bell  had  stopped  ringing,  and  she 
heard  the  organ.  Of  all  moments,  this  was  the  worst 
to  go  in. 

"  What  are  you  waiting  for  ?  "  said  Miss  Varian, 
sharply,  as  Missy  paused,  irresolute. 

"  Nothing,"  said  Missy  with  a  groan,  and  she  went 
forward,  bidding  the  children  follow.  Goneril,  of 
course,  was  a  dissenter,  and  had  to  be  driven 
to  the  other  end  of  the  village  to  say  her  humble 
prayers.  I  think  she  objected  to  stopping  even 
at  the  church  gate,  and  to  riding  with  people  who  were 
going  there.  She  always  had  a  great  deal  to  say  at 
the  Sunday  dinner,  about  forms  and  ceremonies  and  a 
free  Gospel,  but  as  her  fellow-servants  were  most  of 
them  of  a  more  advanced  creed  themselves,  she  did 
not  get  much  sympathy,  or  do  much  iniurv  to  any  one. 


158  PER    ASPEEA    AD    ASTRA. 

So  Goneril  went  her  way,  and  Missy,  with  her  blind 
aunt  on  her  arm,  and  the  children  following  in  her 
wake,  went  hers.  Certainly  it  was  the  way  of  duty, 
or  she  never  would  have  walked  in  it.  If  she  had 
dared  to  do  it,  she  would  have  stayed  from  church 
that  morning,  and  said  matins  among  the  cedars  on 
the  bank.  But  as  she  did  what  was  right  and  what 
was  hard,  no  doubt,  her  poor  distracted  prayers  got  an 
answer,  and  her  marred,  distorted  offering  of  worship 
was  accepted. 

St.  John  was  not  yet  in  the  chancel  ;  they  had 
fallen  upon  the  moment  when  they  would  naturally 
be  most  conspicuous  and  attract  most  notice  from  the 
congregation.  Miss  Varian  always  would  walk  slowly 
and  heavily  ;  the  children  gazed  about  them,  and  met 
many  curious  eyes.  Missy  looked  haughty  enough  ; 
she  was  never  particularly  humble-looking.  When 
they  reached  the  pew-door  (and  it  seemed  to  Missy 
they  would  never  reach  it),  Miss  Varian  was  a  long 
while  getting  through  the  kneeling  cushions,  and  ac 
cepted  no  help  from  any  one. 

"  Well,  I  hope  they  all  see  the  children  and  are 
satisfied  of  my  intentions,"  said  Missy  bitterly  to  her 
self,  as  she  stood  thus  a  mark  for  the  merry  eyes  of 
Yellowcoats.  At  last,  Aunt  Harriet  made  her  way  to 
the  end  of  the  pew,  and  Missy  followed  her,  letting 
the  children  take  care  of  themselves. 

St.  John's  voice  ;  well,  there  was  something  in  it 
different  from  other  voices.  There  must  have  been  a 
dim  and  distant  echo  of  that  company  who  rest  not 
day  nor  night.  It  did  not  recall  earth  and  vanity.  It 
made  a  lift  in  the  thoughts  of  those  who  heard  it. 
Missy,  amidst  distraction  and  vexation,  heard  him,  and 


PER    A8PERA    AD    ASTRA.  159 

in  a  moment  felt  that  it  was  very  little  worth,  all  that 
had  caused  her  smart  and  ache.  When  St.  John  read, 
people  listened,  whatever  it  was.  Perhaps  it  was 
what  is  "  sincerity  "  in  art.  He  read  in  a  monotone 
too,  as  does  his  school.  He  did  not  lift  his  eyes  and 
look  about  him  ;  he  almost  made  a  business  of  looking 
down.  It  was  very  simple  ;  but  maybe  those  who 
would  analyze  its  power,  would  have  to  go  far  back 
into  fasts  and  vigils  and  deep  hours  of  meditation. 
Missy  drew  a  long  breath.  She  didn't  care  for  Yellow- 
coats'  gossip  now,  while  she  heard  St.  John's  voice,  and 
poured  out  her  fretted  soul  in  the  prayers  of  her  child 
hood.  Perhaps  she  never  knew  how  much  she  owed 
her  brother,  and  those  disapproved  austerities  of  his. 
We  do  not  always  know  what  the  saints  win  for  us, 
nor  how  much  the  fuller  we  may  be  for  our  holy 
neighbor's  empty  stomach.  And  the  children  tumbled 
and  twisted  about  on  their  seats,  and  Jay  went  to 
sleep,  and  Gabby  eyed  her  neighbors,  and  Missy  did 
not  mind.  It  was  well  that  she  did  not,  for  if  she  had 
reproved  them,  Yellowcoats  would  have  whispered, 
what  a  step-mother  is  that,  my  brothers.  And  if  she 
had  caressed  them,  they  would  have  jeered  and  said, 
see  the  pursuit,  my  sisters.  But  as  she  simply  let  them 
alone,  they  could  say  nothing,  and  settled  themselves 
to  listen  to  the  sermon  after  the  prayers  were  said. 

And  in  the  sermon  there  was  a  word  for  Missy.  It 
was  an  old  word,  as  most  good  words  are  ;  Missy  re 
membered  copying  it  out  years  before,  when  it  had 
seemed  good  to  her,  but  now  it  seemed  better  and  fuller  : 

"  Let  nothing  disturb  thee,  nothing  surprise  thee  : 

"  Everything  passes  : 

"  God  does  not  change  : 


160  PER    A8PERA     AD    ASTRA. 

11  Patience  alone  weareth  out  all  things  : 
"  Whoso  holds  fast  to  God  shall  want  for  nothing  : 
"  God  alone  sufficeth." 

And  "  the  benediction  that  followeth  after  prayer  " 
seemed  to  her  more  than  ever 

"  A  Christian  charm, 
To  dull  the  shafts  of  worldly  harm." 

Even  though  the  arm  stretched  out  to  bless  were 
that  of  the  young  brother  whose  steps  she  had  so  often 
guided  in  their  days  of  childhood. 

As  they  went  in,  Missy  had  seen,  somehow,  with 
those  quick,  light-blue  eyes  of  hers,  that  Mr.  Andrews 
was  in  the  church,  in  a  pew  near  the  door.  She  knew  it 
was  the  first  time  he  had  been  in  the  church  since  his 
wife's  death.  She  began  instantly  to  speculate  about 
his  reasons  for  coming,  and  to  wonder  whether  he 
would  have  the  kindness  to  go  off  and  leave  them 
to  get  into  the  carriage  by  themselves  after  service. 
Then  St.  John's  voice  had  broken  in  upon  the  fret,  and 
she  had  forgotten  it,  till  they  were  at  the  church  door, 
coming  out,  before  chattering  little  groups  of  people  on 
the  grass  outside.  It  did  not  yet  rain,  but  the  sky 
was  gray  as  granite,  and  the  air  chill. 

Jay's  warm  little  hand  was  in  hers,  unconsciously 
to  them  both.  Miss  Varian  was  feaning  heavily  upon 
her  other  arm.  Half  a  dozen  persons  came  up  to  speak 
to  them  as  they  made  their  way  to  the  carriage.  At 
the  carriage  door  stood  Mr.  Andrews.  Jay  made  a 
spring  at  him.  Mr.  Andrews  gravely  lifted  him  in. 
Missy  felt  an  angry  agitation  as  she  saw  him,  but  the 
words  of  St.  Theresa's  wisdom  stood  by  her  for  the 


PER    ASPERA    AD     ASTRA.  1G1 

moment.  He  scarcely  looked  at  her  as  he  put  her  into 
the  carriage.  Gabrielle,  very  subdued,  followed,  and 
Mr.  Andrews  closed  the  door,  lifted  his  hat,  after  some 
commonplace  about  the  weather,  and  the  carriage  drove 
away.  All  Yellowcoats  might  have  seen  that.  Noth 
ing  could  have  been  more  unsensational. 

That  evening  St.  John  came  to  tea,  very  tired  and 
silent.  He  sat  alone  with  his  mother  an  hour  before 
tea,  and  Missy  saw  tears  on  her  cheeks  as  she  brought 
in  the  light.  She  came  into  the  library  and  lay  on  her 
sofa,  but  could  not  join  them  at  tea.  Those  tears 
always  gave  Missy  a  jealous  feeling.  These  long  talks 
with  St.  John  now  always  brought  them.  At  tea  the 
children  chattered,  and  St.  John  tried  to  be  amus 
ing  to  them,  and  after  tea,  as  they  sat  around  the 
library  fire,  while  the  rain  outside  dashed  against  the 
windows,  he  took  Jay  on  his  lap,  and  told  him  a  story. 
Jay  liked  it,  and  called  for  more,  and  Gabby  drew  near 
to  listen. 

"  Why  didn't  you  tell  us  a  story  to-day  at  church," 
he  said.  "  Stories  are  a  great  deal  nicer  than  talking 
the  way  you  did." 

"  Goneril  says  it  doesn't  do  us  any  good  to  go  to 
church  when  we  don't  want  to,"  said  Gabby. 
"Does  it,  Mr.  Varian  ?" 

"  People  don't  go  to  church  to  be  done  good  to," 
said  Missy,  who  had  no  patience  with  Goneril,  and  less 
with  Gabrielle. 

"  Don't  they  ?"  asked  Gabrielle,  ignoring  Missy, 
and  turning  her  great  eyes  up  appealingly  into  St. 
John's  face,  as  she  leaned  on  the  arm  of  his  chair. 

"  No,  I  should  think  not,"  said  St.  John,  slowly, 
putting  his  hand  on  hers. 


162  PER    A8PERA    AD    ASTRA. 

"Translate  it  into  words  of  one  syllable,  St.  John," 
said  Missy,  poking  a  pine-knot  into  blaze,  "  that  people 
go  to  church  for  worship,  not  for  edification." 

"  Well,  children,"  he  said,  "no  doubt  you  have 
always  been  taught  to  go  and  say  good-morning  to 
your  father,  and  give  him  a  kiss,  haven't  you  ?  And 
you  generally  do  it,  though  it  doesn't  do  you  any  par 
ticular  good,  nor,  for  the  matter  of  that,  very  much 
to  him.  But  he  likes  it,  and  you  always  ought  to  go. 
Maybe  sometimes  you  don't  want  to  go  ;  sometimes 
you're  busy  playing,  or  you're  hungry  for  your  break 
fast,  or  you're  a  little  lazy.  But  if  you  always  give 
up  your  play,  or  put  off  your  breakfast,  or  get  over 
being  lazy,  and  go,  no  doubt  you  have  done  right,  and 
he  is  pleased  with  you.  Now,  going  to  church  is  a 
service,  a  thing  to  be  done,  to  be  offered  to  God  ;  it 
isn't  that  we  may  be  better,  or  learn  something,  or  get 
any  good,  that  we  go.  It  is  to  pay  an  honor  to  our 
Heavenly  Father  ;  it  is  something  to  give  to  Him, 
an  offering.  I  think  we  should  be  glad,  don't  you? 
There  are  so  few  things  we  can  give  Him." 

Gabrielle  was  not  convinced,  and  offered  objections 
manifold,  but  Jay  said  "  All  right,  he'd  go  next  time 
without  crying,  if  Goneril  didn't  brush  his  hair  so 
hard." 

"  You  mustn't  get  her  into  an  argument,  then," 
said  Missy.  "  The  faster  she  talks,  the  harder  she 
brushes." 

"  You  won't  be  here  another  Sunday,  Jay,"  said 
Gabby.  "  You'll  have  your  own  nurse,  and  ma}'be 
she'll  brush  easy." 

The  children  were  soon  sent  to  bed,  and  then  St. 
John  went  away. 


PER    ASPERA     AD     ASTRA.  163 

"I  have  something  to  tell  you,  Missy,"  said  her 
mother.  "  Come  to  my  room  before  you  go  to  bed." 

Missy's  heart  beat  faster.  Now  she  should  know 
the  explanation  of  her  mother's  tears,  and  St.  John's 
long  silences. 

"  Well,"  said  Missy,  sitting  down  by  her  mother's 
sofa,  before  the  fire  which  blazed  uncertainly.  She 
knew  from  the  clear  shining  of  her  mother's  eyes,  and 
from  the  faint  flush  on  her  cheek,  that  it  was  no  tri 
fling  news  she  was  to  hear,  and  that  before  that  pine 
log  burned  away,  they  should  have  gone  very  deep. 
She  felt  a  jealous  determination  to  oppose. 

"  You  don't  know  how  to  begin,  I  see,"  she  said, 
with  a  bitter  little  laugh.  "  I  wish  I  could  help  you.'' 

"Oh,"  said  her  mother,  "  it  is  not  very  difficult.  St. 
John  says  you  told  him  never  to  talk  to  you  about  go 
ing  away  ;  and  so  it  was  best  not  to  talk  about  it  till 
everything  was  settled." 

"  Certainly  ;  he  has  only  kept  his  promise.  I  did 
not  want  to  be  stirred  up  with  all  his  fluctuations  of 
purpose." 

"I  do  not  think,  Missy,  you  can  justly  say  he  has 
fluctuated  in  purpose.  I  think  he  came  here  almost 
under  protest,  giving  up  his  will  in  the  matter  to 
please  us — to  please  you.  In  truth,  I  think  he  has  had 
but  one  purpose,  that  has  been  strengthening  slowly 
day  by  day." 

Missy  lifted  her  head.  "  I  don't  understand  ex 
actly.  I  know  he  has  been  getting  restless." 

"  I  don't  think  he  has  been  getting  restless." 

"  Well,  at  any  rate  it  looks  so,  going  from  one 
parish  to  another  in  six  months." 

"  But,  he  is  not  going  from  one  parish  to  another." 


164  PER    ASPERA    AD    ASTRA. 

Missy  started.  "  What  do  you  mean,  mamma?  I 
hope  he  isn't — isn't  giving  up  the  ministry." 

"Oh,  no  ;  how  could  you  think  of  such  a  thing." 

"  Well,"  cried  Missy,  impetuously,  "please  remem 
ber  I  am  outside  of  all  your  counsels.  Everything  is 
new  to  me.  St.  John  is  going  away  ;  is  going  to  make 
some  important  step,  and  yet  is  not  going  to  a  new 
parish,  is  not  forsaking  his  vocation.  How  can  you 
wonder  I  am  puzzled  ?" 

"  He  isn't  forsaking  his  vocation  ;  he  is  only  fol 
lowing  what  he  is  very  sure  is  his  vocation  in  its  high 
est,  fullest  sense." 

"You  don't  mean,"  cried  Missy,  turning  a  startled 
face  to  her  mother,  "that  St.  John  has  got  an  idea 
that  he  is  called  to  the  religious  life?  Mamma,  it 
isn't  possible.  I  can't  believe  you  have  encouraged 
him  in  this." 

"I  have  had  nothing  to  do  with  it,  alas,  my  child. 
One  must  let  that  alone  forever.  We  can  give  up  or 
deny  to  God,  our  own  souls  ;  but  '  the  souls  of  others 
are  as  the  fruit  of  the  tree  of  knowledge  of  good 
and  evil  ;  we  must  not  touch  them.'  I  had  my  own 
soul  to  give,  and  I  did  not  give  it." 

Missy  turned  coldly  away  while  her  mother  pressed 
her  hands  before  her  face.  There  was  a  silence,  in 
which  a  bitter  flood  of  thoughts  passed  through  the 
mind  of  the  younger  one. 

"I  am  a  reproach  to  you,  mamma,"  she  said. 
"  Perhaps  I  ought  not  to  exist.  There  are  moments 
when  I  feel  the  contradictions  of  my  nature  to  be  so 
great,  I  wonder  if  it  were  not  wrong,  instead  of  right, 
that  I  was  born — a  broken  law,  and  not  a  law  fulfilled. 
I  know — you  need  not  tell  me — you  had  always  thought 


PER    ASPERA     AD    ASTRA.  165 

of  the  religious  life  yourself.      We  have  not  talked 

O  •/ 

much  of  it,  but  I  have  had  my  thoughts.  Your  first 
marriage  bound  you  to  the  world,  because  it  left  you 
with  me.  I  suppose  if  I  had  not  been  born  you  would 
have  entered  a  sisterhood.  Then,  mamma,  you  need 
not  evade  it,  you  would  have  missed  the  real  love,  the 
real  life  of  your  heart.  You  have  never  told  me  this, 
but  I  know  enough  to  know  you  did  not  love  my  father. 
It  cannot  be  your  fault  ;  but  it  was  your  fate.  Do 
not  contradict  me,  we  never  have  gone  so  deep  before. 
Yes,  mamma,  I  bound  you  to  the  world.  I  was  tho 
unlovely  child  who  stood  between  you  and  heaven. 
How  could  I  help  being  unlovely,  born  of  duty, 
not  of  love  ?  I  don't  reproach  you,  except  as  my  ex 
istence  reproaches  you.  St.  John  is  not  a  contradic 
tion  ;  his  nature  is  full  and  sweet  ;  he  might  live  a 
happy  life.  Why  do  you  sacrifice  him  ?  You  say  you 
have  had  no  hand  in  this — mamma — mamma — you 
moulded  him  ;  you  bend  him  now.  You  do  not  know 
how  strong  your  influence  upon  him  is.  It  is  the  un 
conscious  feeling  of  your  heart  that  you  are  making 
reparation.  You  are  satisfied  to  give  him  up  who  is 
all  the  world  to  you,  that  Heaven  may  be  propitiated. 
It  is  I  who  should  have  been  sacrificed  ;  I,  who  have 
been  always  in  your  way  to  holiness — a  thorn  in  your 
side,  mamma — a  perverse  nature,  not  to  be  bent  to 
your  path  of  sacrifice  and  immolation." 

"  Do  not  talk  of  sacrifice,  my  child,  of  immolation. 
It  is  a  height,  a  glory,  to  attain  to.  I  cannot  make 
you  understand — I  will  not  contradict  you." 

"  No,  do  not  contradict  me.  I  am  contradicted 
enough.  I  am  not  in  your  state  of  fervor.  I  see 
things  as  they  are,  I  see  plain  facts.  Believe  me,  this 


166  PER    ASPERA     AD    ASTRA. 

enthusiasm  cannot  last.  You  will  find,  too  late,  that 
you  have  not  counted  the  cost  ;  that  you  cannot  bear 
the  strain  of  feeling — a  living  death — a  grave  that  the 
grass  never  grows  over.  Time  can't  heal  a  wound 
that  is  always  kept  open.  You  are  mad,  mamma,  you 
are  mad.  We  cannot  bear  this  thing.  Look  at  it,  as 
you  will  when  your  enthusiasm  cools." 

"  I  have  looked  at  it,  Missy,  for  many  months, 
through  silent  nights  and  days.  It  is  no  new  thought 
to  me.  My  dear,  I  have  many  lonely  hours  ;  I  have 
much  suffering,  which  abates  enthusiasm.  Through 
loneliness  and  suffering,  I  have  had  this  thought 
for  my  companion.  I  know  what  I  am  doing,  and  I 
do  it  almost  gladly.  Not  quite,  for  I  am  very  weak, 
but  almost,  for  God  has  been  very  gracious  to  me." 

"It  is  infatuation,  it  is  madness,  and  you  will  both 
repent." 

"  Plush,  my  child,"  said  her  mother,  trying  to  take 
her  hand,  "  the  thought  is  new  to  you,  that  is  why  it 
seems  so  dreadful." 

But  Missy  drew  her  hand  from  her  mother's  and 
turned  her  face  away.  Her  heart  was  pierced  with 
sorrow  at  the  thought  of  parting  from  her  brother.  It 
was  the  overthrow,  too,  of  all  her  plans  for  him,  of  all 
their  joint  happiness  and  usefulness.  But,  to  do  her 
justice,  the  bitterness  of  her  disappointment  came  from 
the  idea  of  separation  from  him.  She  loved  him  a 
great  deal  more  than  she  acknowledged  even  to  her 
self.  Life  would  be  blank  without  him  to  her,  and 
what  would  it  be  to  her  mother  ?  This  sudden  weight 
of  woe  seemed  unbearable,  and  it  was  a  woe  worse  than 
death,  inasmuch  as,  to  her  mind,  it  was  unnecessary, 
unnatural,  and  by  no  law  of  God  ordained.  She  felt 


PER  ASPERA  AD  ASTRA.       167 

as  if  she  were  smothering,  stifling,  and  her  mother's 
soft  voice  and  calm  words  maddened  her. 

"I  need  not  talk  to  you,"  she  cried,  "for  you 
are  in  this  state  of  exaltation  you  cannot  understand 
me.  When  your  heart  is  broken  by  this  sorrow  ;  when 
you  sink  under  the  weariness  of  life  without  him,  then 
we  can  talk  together  in  one  language,  and  you  can 
understand  me.  But  it  will  be  too  late — Oh,  mamma, 
hear  me — but  what  is  the  use  of  talking  ! — remember 
how  young  he  is,  how  little  of  life  he  knows  !  Think 
how  useful,  how  honorable,  his  work  might  be.  I  can 
not  comprehend  you  ;  I  cannot  think  what  magic  there 
is  about  this  idea  of  the  monastic  life.  Why  must  St. 
John  be  better  than  other  men  of  his  generation  ? 
Why  cannot  he  serve  God  and  live  a  good  life  as 
better  men  have  done  before  him  ?  I  see  nothing  in 
him  so  different  from  others;  he  is  not  so  much  worse, 
that  he  needs  such  rigor,  nor  so  much  better,  that  he 
need  set  himself  apart.  Believe  me,  it  is  the  subtle 
work  of  a  crafty  enemy  ;  he  cannot  be  contented  with 
the  common  round,  the  daily  task  ;  he  is  not  satisfied 
to  do  justice,  love  mercy,  and  walk  humbly  ;  he  must 
do  some  great  thing." 

"  We  shall  see,"  said  her  mother,  gently.  "  His 
vocation  will  be  tested.  You  know  it  will  be  long  be 
fore  he  is  permitted  to  enter  the  order  he  has  chosen. 
He  may  not  be  accepted." 

"  Not  accepted  !  "  cried  Missy.  "  A  man  with 
money,  influence,  talent — Oh,  we  need  not  flatter  our 
selves.  He  will  be  accepted  soon  enough.  They  may 
coquet  about  it  a  little  to  save  appearances,  but 
they  will  not  let  him  escape  them,  you  may  be  quite 
sure." 


168  PER    ASPERA    AD    ASTRA. 

"Missy,  I  must  beg,  if  you  cannot  spare  me  such 
things,  you  will  at  least  not  wound  St.  John  by  saying 
them  before  him." 

"  Oh,  you  may  be  sure  I  will  not  wound  his  saintly 
ears  by  such  profanity.  But  you — I  did  not  think  you 
had  yet  left  the  world.  I  fancied  there  was  yet  one  of 
my  blood  to  whom  I  might  speak  familiarly.  You 
and  St.  John  are  all  I  have  ;  and  when  he  is  a  monk,  I 
shall  be  obliged  to  be  a  Trappist — are  there  female 
Trappists  ? — excuse  my  ignorance  of  such  matters — or 
offend  you  occasionally  by  my  secular  conversation." 

"  Missy,  we  won't  talk  of  this  any  more  till  you 
have  got  over  your  bitterness  a  little.  I  hoped  you 
would  not  take  it  so.  I  have  dreaded  telling  you 
for  the  pain  it  would  give  you,  but  I  did  not  think  you 
would  so  misapprehend  him.  By  and  by,  I  am  sure 
you  will  see  it  differently,  and  though  you  may  not 
fully  approve,  you  will  yet  admire  the  fullness  of  his 
faith,  and  the  sweetness  of  what  you  call  his  sacrifice." 

"  Never,  never,"  cried  Missy.  "I  love  truth  and 
right  and  justice  too  much  to  admire  even  the  most 
beautiful  perversions  of  them.  I  may  be  reconciled 
so  far  as  to  hold  my  peace.  More  you  cannot  ask  of 
me.  Mamma,  remember,  you  and  I  have  always 
thought  differently  about  these  things.  St.  John  took 
your  faith,  and  has  always  been  dearer  and  nearer  to 
you  than  I.  I  cannot  help  the  way  I  was  made  ;  we 
are  not  responsible,  I  suppose,  for  the  shape  of  our 
minds  any  more  than  for  the  shape  of  our  bodies.  St. 
John  always  loved  to  hear  about  .miracles  and  martyr 
doms  ;  I  never  did.  It  wasn't  his  merit  that  he  liked 
them,  nor  my  fault  that  I  didn't  like  them.  Such  as  I 
am  by  nature,  you  must  be  patient  with  me." 


PER    A8PERA    AD    ASTRA.  169 

"Such  as  we  are  by  nature,  my  dear,  would  draw 
little  love  to  us  from  God,  or  men.  O;ir  corrections 
and  amendments  make  our  worth.  I  love  you  for 
what  you  have  made  yourself,  in  spite  of  passion  and 
self-will,  and  St.  John,  for  the  conquest  he  has  made 
of  faults  that  lie  deeper  and  more  hidden.  Ah,  my 
dear,  we  may  go  to  prisons  and  reformatories  to  see 
how  attractive  people  are  by  nature." 

"  You  know,"  said  Missy,  coldly,  "  I  never  could 
feel  as  you  do  about  this  making  over,  '  teaching  our 
very  hearts  to  beat  by  rule.'  You  see  it  is — just  one 
part  of  our  difference.  St.  John  will  always  please 
you.  I  am  afraid  I  cannot  hope  to  do  it,  and  as  we  are 
to  spend  our  lives  alone  together,  it  is  to  be  re 
gretted." 

"  Oli,  Missy,  Missy,  do  not  try  to  break  my  heart  !" 

"If  it  is  not  broken  now,  by  this  cruel  separation, 
nothing  I  can  do  will  break  it.  Mamma,  forgive  me,  if 
I  am  not  as  humble  and  reverent  as  I  should  be,  but  you 
have  laid  a  great  deal  on  me.  All  this  is,  as  you  say, 
quite  new  to  me.  It  is  as  if  you  had  taken  me  by 
the  hand,  and  led  me  to  the  room  where  my  brother  lay 
dying  and  had  said  to  rne,  '  See,  I  have  mixed  the  poi 
son,  and  given  it  to  him  ;  we  have  talked  it  over  for 
months  together  ;  we  are  both  convinced  that  it  is 
right  and  good  Death  is  better  than  life.  Be  con 
tent,  and  give  thanks  for  what  we  have  done.'" 

"  My  child,  you  cannot  surely  be  so  blind.  How  is 
it  that  you  do  not  perceive  that  it  is  not  death,  but  life, 
that  I  have  led  you  in  to  see  ?  That  I  have  shown  you 
your  brother,  girded  with  a  new  strength,  clothed  with 
a  new  honor  ;  set  apart  for  the  service  of  God  forever. 
8 


170  PER    ASP  ERA    AD    ASTRA. 

Missy,  he  is  not  lost  to  us,  dear,  whiie  we  believe  in  the 
Communion  of  Saints." 

"  Mamma,  I  don't  believe  in  it  !  1  don't  believe  in 
anything.  You  have  overthrown  my  faith.  You  have 
killed  me." 

"  Listen  to  reason,  Missy,  if  not  to  faith.  St.  John 
is  happy  ;  happier  than  I  ever  knew  him,  even  as  a 
child  ;  he  is  happy,  even  in  this  time  of  transition  and 
suspense.  If  he  is  blessed  with  this  great  gift,  if  he 
has  sought  peace  and  found  it,  even  in  what  may  seem 
to  you  this  hard  and  bitter  way,  let  us  be  thankful  and 
not  hinder  him.  This  is  not  of  an  hour's  growth,  and 
he  will  not  waver.  He  is  slower  than  we  are,  Missy, 
slower  and  deeper.  St.  John  is  steadfast,  and  he  is 
fully  persuaded  in  his  own  mind  of  what  he  wants  to 
do  and  what  he  ought  to  do.  I  know  no  one  with  so 
little  natural  enthusiasm — the  fire  that  burns  in  him  is 
not  of  nature.  And  he  has  counted  the  cost.  He  knows 
what  he  gives  up,  and  he  knows  what  he  gains.  He 
knows  that  he  is  sure  of  misconception,  reprobation, 
scorn,  and  I  do  not  think  it  weighs  a  straw  with  him. 
What  would  weigh  with  you,  and  possibly  with  me,  is 
literally  of  no  force  at  all  with  him.  You  know  he 
never  thought  at  all  what  the  world  might  say  about 
him,  not  from  disrespect  to  the  opinion  of  others,  but 
from  deep  indifference,  from  perfect  unconsciousness. 
That  is  nature,  and  not  grace,  but  it  makes  the  step  less 
hard  The  separation  from  us,  Missy,  the  giving  up 
his  home,  that  has  been  a  battle  indeed  ;  but  it  has  been 
fought,  and,  I  think,  will  never  have  to  be  gone  over,  in 
its  bitterness,  again." 

"  I  don't  know  how  you  can  have  any  assurance  of 
that  ;  excuse  me  for  saying  so." 


PER    ASPERA     AD    ASTRA.  171 

"  Well,  I  cannot  explain  it  to  you.  I  am  afraid  I 
could  not  make  yon  understand  exactly.  '  The  heart 
hath  its  reasons,  which  the  reason  cannot  comprehend.'  " 

"  No  doubt.  I  am  not  right  in  asking  you  to  cast 
these  spiritual  pearls  before  me — " 

"  Missy  !" 

"  But  I  may  ask  for  some  plain  husks  of  fact.  I 
am  capable  of  understanding  them  perhaps.  If  it 
isn't  bringing  things  down  too  much,  please,  when  does 
my  brother  go  away — where  does  he  go  to,  when  he 
goes  ?" 

"  I  suppose  he  will  go  next  month  ;  he  will  offer  his 
resignation  here  to-morrow  at  the  vestry  meeting." 

"  Then  will  begin  the  strife  of  tongues,"  said  Missy, 
with  a  shudder.  "I  suppose  he  will  think  it  his  duty 
to  tell  these  ten  solid  gentlemen  '  with  good  capon 
lined,'  fresh  from  their  comfortable  dinners,  why  he 
goes  away." 

"Assuredly  not,  Missy.  St.  John  is  not  Quixotic. 
He  lias  good  quiet  sense." 

"  lie  had,  mamma.  Excuse  me.  Well,  if  I  may 
hear  it,  where  is  he  going,  and  is  it  to  be  unequivocally 
forever — and — I  hope  he  remains  in  our  own  com 
munion  ?  I  don't  know  whether  I  ought  to  ask  for 
such  low  details  or  not,  but  I  cannot  help  a  certain  in 
terest  in  them.  I  suppose  an  ecstasy  has  no  body  ; 
but  a  resolution  may  have." 

"  Surely,  Missy,  you  will  not  say  things  like  these  to 
St.  John  ?  Save  your  taunts  for  me.  It  would  wound 
him  cruelly,  and  he  would  not  know,  as  I  do,  that  they 
spring  from  your  suffering  and  deep  love  to  him." 

"Truly,  mamma,  you  are  too  tender  of  the  feelings 
of  your  ascetic.  If  I  wound  him,  that  is  a  part  of  what 


172  PER    A8PERA     AD    ASTRA. 

he  has  undertaken  ;  that  is  what  he  ought  to  bo  pre 
pared  for,  and  to  ask  for.  You  can't  put  yourself  be 
tween  him  and  his  scourge.  Think  of  it  !  how  the 
lash  will  come  down  on  his  white  flesh  ;  and  St.  John 
has  always  been  a  little  tender  of  his  flesh,  mamma. 
Well — is  he  Roman  or  Anglican  ?  For  I  confess  I 
feel  I  do  not  know  my  brother.  Please  translate  him 
to  me." 

"  I  don't  know  why,  having  seen  no  wavering  in 
his  faith,  you  should  insult  him  by  supposing  he  has 
any  intention  to  forsake  it.  But  let  us  end  this  con 
versation,  Missy.  I  feel  too  ill  to  talk  further  to-night, 
beyond  telling  you  he  hopes  to  enter  an  order  in  Eng 
land,  and  that  he  will  be  gone,  in  any  event,  two 
years.  After  that,  it  is  all  uncertain.  If  he  is  re 
ceived,  he  is  under  obedience.  lie  may  be  sent  to 
America  ;  he  may  end  his  days  in  India.  We  may 
see  him  often,  or  we  may  see  him  never.  It  is  all 
quite  one  to  him,  I  think,  and  I  pray  he  may  not  even 
have  a  wish." 

Mrs.  Varian  ceased  speaking,  and  lay  back  on 
her  sofa  quite  white  and  exhausted. 

"  I  suppose  I'd  better  not  keep  you  awake  any 
longer,  then,"  said  Missy,  rising.  "Is  there  anything 
I  can  do  for  yon  ?  Call  me  if  you  need  me.  Good 
night."  She  stooped  over  her  mother  and  kissed  her 
lightly.  She  would  not  touch  her  hand,  for  fear  she 
should  show  how  cold  hers  was,  and  how  it  trembled. 
She  went  across  the  room  to  see  if  the  windows  were 
closed,  and  then  to  the  fire  to  see  that  it  was  safe  to 
leave  for  the  night,  and  with  another  word  or  two, 
went  out  and  shut  the  door.  A  tempest  of  remorse 
for  her  unkindness  came  over  her  when  she  was  alone 


PER    ASPERA     AD    ASTRA.  173 

in  her  own  room.  She  knew  what  her  mother  was 
suffering,  had  suffered,  and  though  she  reproached  her 
for  having  influenced  her  brother's  decision,  she  re 
proached  herself  for  having  added  one  pang  to  her 
already  too  great  sorrow.  She  had,  indeed,  cruelly 
wounded  her,  and  left  her  to  the  long  night  watches 
without  a  word  of  repentance. 

Missy  would  have  given  worlds  to  have  been  on 
the  other  side  of  the  door  she  had  just  closed.  Then 
it  would  be  easy  to  let  the  tears  come  that  were  burn 
ing  in  her  eyes,  and  to  throw  herself  into  her  mothei-'s 
arms,  and  be  silently  forgiven.  But  in  cold  blood  to 
go  back,  to  reopen  the  conversation,  to  take  back 
what  she  had  said,  to  humble  herself  to  ask  forgiveness 
for  what  was  true,  but  which  ought  not  to  have  been 
spoken — this  was  more  than  she  had  grace  to  do. 
She  longed  for  the  time  to  come  when  she  should  have 
a  sorrow  to  bear  that  was  not  mixed  up  with  repent 
ance  for  some  wrong-doing  of  her  own.  This  loss  of 
her  brother,  cruel  as  it  was,  would  always  be  made 
crueller  by  the  recollection  of  her  jealousy  of  him,  of 
her  unkindness  to  her  mother,  of  the  way  in  which  she 
had  rejected  her  sympathy  and  taunted  her  with  the 
share  she  had  had  in  what  had  happened.  It  all 
seemed  insupportable,  the  wounded  love,  the  separa 
tion,  the  remorse,  the  jealousy,  and  the  disappoint 
ment.  What  was  her  life  now  ?  St.  John  was  woven 
into  every  part  of  it.  What  was  her  work  in  the 
parish,  with  him  away  ;  what  her  home  without  his 
presence?  The  world,  she  had  given  up  as  much  as  he, 
she  thought ;  in  it  she  could  find  no  amusement. 
Study  had  been  but  a  means  to  an  end  ;  there  was 
nothing  left  her  but  duty — duty  without  peace  or 


174  PER    ASPERA    AD    ASTRA. 

pleasure.  She  had  her  mother  still,  but  her  mother's 
heart  was  with  St.  John.  Missy  felt  that  there  was  a 
barrier  between  them  which  each  day's  suffering  would 
add  to.  She  should  reproach  her  mother  always  for 
having  influenced  St.  John.  (She  never  for  a  moment 
altered  her  judgment  of  the  error  that  had  been  made, 
nor  allowed  that  there  might  be  a  side  on  which  she 
had  not  looked.)  She  was  certain  that  her  mother 
would  be  unable  to  endure  the  separation,  and  that 
the  months,  as  they  wore  away,  would  wear  away  her 
life.  She  would  see  her  mother  fading  away  before 
her  eyes  ;  and  St.  John,  in  his  new  life,  leaving  his 
duties  to  her,  would  be  sustained  by  his  mother's 
praise,  and  the  approbation  of  his  perverted  conscience. 
She  would  be  cut  off  from  the  sympathy  of  both 
mother  and  brother  ;  equally  uncongenial  to  both.  She 
thought  of  them  as  infatuated  ;  they  thought  of  her 
as  worldly-minded  ;  she  looked  down  upon  their  want 
of  wisdom  ;  she  knew  they  looked  down  upon  her  un- 
spiritual  sordidness.  It  was  all  sore  and  bitter,  and 
as  the  day  dawned  upon  her  sleepless  eyes,  she  thought, 
with  almost  a  relenting  feeling,  that  if  St.  John  had 
found  peace  anywhere,  he  was  not  to  blame  for  going 
where  it  led  him. 


MT    DUTY    TO    MY    NEIGHBOR.  175 

CHAPTER  XI. 
MY   DUTY   TO   MY   NEIGHBOR. 

TX  months  had  passed ;  St.  John's  leave-taking 
had  soon  taken  place,  after  the  conversa 
tion  just  recorded.  It  had  been  a  time  of 
great  suffering  to  all  ;  even  Missy  had 
found  it  harder  than  she  had  imagined.  Miss  Varian  had 
taken  it  very  much  to  heart,  and  in  her  violence  Missy 
had  become  calm,  iler  natural  place  was,  of  course, 
in  opposition  to  this  member  of  the  family.  It  seemed 
improper  for  her  to  be  fighting  in  the  ranks  beside 
her  aunt.  This,  and  her  great  pain  in  parting  from, 
her  brother,  hushed  her  outward  opposition.  She  felt 
she  was,  at  least,  justified  in  supporting  him  in  the 
eyes  of  his  deserted  parish — and  thus,  Yellowcoats 
believed  always  that  Missy  had  been  the  chief  instru 
ment  in  depriving  them  of  his  services  ;  so  correct  is 
popular  information.  Her  mother,  Missy  did  not 
understand.  The  actual  moment  of  parting  was  as  full 
of  agony  as  she  had  anticipated  ;  for  an  hour  after, 
there  really  seemed  a  doubt  to  others  than  Missy, 
whether  the  poor  mother  would  ever  come  out  of  the 
swoon  which  had  followed  the  last  sound  of  the  car 
riage  wheels  outside.  But  when,  after  a  day  or  two, 
the  physical  effects  of  the  emotion  passed  away,  Mrs. 
Varian  seemed  to  grow  content  and  quiet  ;  a  deeper 
peace  than  before  filled  her  eyes.  The  yearning,  pin 
ing  weariness  which  Missy  had  anticipated,  did  not 
come.  She  seemed  to  heed  neither  companionship  nor 


176  MY    DUTY    TO    MY    NEIGHBOR. 

solitude  ;  her  solitude  seemed  peopled  with  angelic 
company  ;  while  her  face  welcomed  all  who  came  near 
her,  far  from  angelic  as  they  might  be.  Her  health 
seemed  stronger.  It  was  all  a  mystery  to  her  daugh 
ter. 

"  Mamma  seems  better  than  for  years,  this  win 
ter,"  she  was  obliged  to  say,  when  asked  about  her 
mother's  health.  She  did  not  talk  much  about  St. 
John,  even  with  Missy,  but  when  she  did  talk  of  him, 
it  was  with  simplicity  and  naturalness.  His  letters 
never  threw  her  into  depression,  nor  was  she  deeply 
anxious  when  they  did  not  come.  She  always  gave 
the  letters  to  Missy  to  read,  which  had  not  been  the 
case  before.  They  were  short,  affectionate,  plain  as  to 
fact,  expressing  nothing  of  inward  emotion.  Missy 
felt  sure  that  this  was  understood  between  them,  and 
that  the  outpouring  of  heart  which  had  been  so  dear 
to  both,  was  part  of  the  sacrifice. 

The  new  clergyman  came,  and  parish  matters  in 
their  new  light  had  to  be  talked  over.  This  was  acute 
pain  to  Missy,  to  whom  it  seemed  St.  John's  work 
alone.  It  seemed  to  give  no  pain  to  her  mother,  and 
her  interest  in  affairs  connected  with  the  village 
church  was  unabated.  The  only  thing  that  seemed 
to  pain  her,  was  the  adverse  criticism  upon  the  step 
her  son  had  taken,  which  Miss  Varian  took  pains 
should  come  to  her  ears.  People  opened  their  minds  on 
the  matter  to  her,  knowing  she  was  strongly  opposed 
to  it,  and  she  felt  it  to  be  her  one  source  of  consola 
tion,  to  repeat  these  confidences  to  her  sister-in-law. 

After  a  time,  it  became  Missy's  business  to  thwart 
her  in  obtaining  interviews  with  her  mother,  and  to 
have  always  a  servant  in  the  room.  Before  a  servant, 


MY    DUTY     TO    MY    NEIGHBOR.  177 

Miss  Varian  would  not  talk  on  family  matters,  even 
when  she  was  very  bitter,  and  Goneril  had  a  comfortable 
corner  of  the  room  where  she  was  not  loth  to  do  her 
sewing,  and  where  she  saved  Mrs.  Varian  many  a  sharp 
stab.  The  children,  too,  came  often  to  the  house, 
almost  as  often  as  in  the  summer  time,  and  they  and 
their  nurse  made  a  wall  of  defense  as  well. 

After  all,  the  winter  wore  away  not  unpeacef ully  to 
the  Varian  household,  and  all  the  desponding  anticipa 
tions  seemed  to  have  been  unwarranted.  The  children 
went  and  came  ;  Jay's  warm  little  hand  was  often  in 
Missy's  when  she  walked  and  rode  ;  she  had  much  occu 
pation  in  the  house,  not  as  many  interests  outside. 
Time  seemed  to  be  healing  the  wound  made  by  her 
brother's  departure  ;  she  had  read  systematically,  she 
was  in  fine  health,  the  winter  had  been  steadily  cold 
and  bracing.  Yes,  it  had  been  a  quiet,  peaceful  time  to 
them  all  since  Christmas.  She  blushed  when  she  re 
membered  how  persistently  she  had  prophesied  evil, 
refusing  to  be  comforted.  "  I  must  be  very  common 
place,"  she  thought.  "  I  am  not  even  capable  of  suf 
fering  consistently."  On  the  whole,  however,  it  was  a 
relief  to  be  contented  and  comfortable,  and  she  did  not 
reject  it  exactly,  though  she  took  it  under  protest,  and 
with  a  certain  shame.  She  had,  too,  got  over  the  vio 
lence  of  her  feelings  in  the  matter  of  her  neighbor. 
She  remembered  her  keen  emotions  with  mortification. 
A  good  many  things  had  contributed  to  this,  principally 
the  fact  that  St.  John's  going  had  eclipsed  all  other 
events,  and  that,  in  that  real  sorrow,  the  trifling  sting 
was  forgotten.  Besides,  the  gentleman  himself  had 
had  the  kindness  to  keep  entirely  at  home. 

It  was  now  May,  and  since  November  Missy  had 
8* 


178  MY    DUTY    TO    MY    NEIGHBOR. 

not  spoken  to  him  once.  His  household  matters 
seemed  to  have  been  working  smoothly.  The  servants, 
Missy  learned  through  Eliza,  the  nurse,  were  contented 
and  industrious.  Mr.  Andrews,  she  said,  was  the 
nicest  gentleman  to  work  for.  He  seemed  as  comfort 
able  as  a  king,  and  was  pleased  with  everything  they 
did  for  him.  He  read  his  paper  after  dinner,  and  then 
talked  with  the  children,  and  after  they  went  to  bed, 
read  or  wrote  till  after  all  were  sleeping  in  the  house. 
Two  nights  in  the  week  he  stayed  in  town  ;  he  did  not 
seem  to  mind  going  back  and  forth.  Sometimes  he 
brought  a  gentleman  home  with  him,  but  that  was  not 
very  often.  He  seemed  to  think  the  children  much 
improved,  and  he  took  an  interest  in  their  lessons,  and 
made  them  tell  him  every  night  what  they  had  been 
learning.  As  Eliza  was  herself  their  teacher,  this  grat 
ified  her  very  much.  She  was  a  steady,  sensible  young 
woman,  and  was  in  reality  a  protegee  of  Missy's. 
Missy  had  had  her  in  her  Snnday-school  class,  had  pre 
pared  her  for  confirmation,  and  had  never  ceased  to 
look  after  her  and  advise  her;  and  had  told  a  very 
naughty  "  story  "  when  she  denied  to  Mr.  Andrews  that 
the  nurse  elect  was  any  protegee  of  hers.  But  in  cer 
tain  crises  the  most  virtuous  of  women  will  say  what 
is  not  true. 

At  first  Missy  tried  to  repress  Eliza's  devotion 
to  her,  and  not  to  listen  to  the  details  she  insisted 
on  giving  of  her  daily  life  and  trials  ;  but  it  was 
too  alluring  to  give  advice,  and  to  manage  Jay 
by  proxy  ;  and  after  a  month  or  two,  Missy  ruled 
as  truly  in  the  Andrews  nursery  as  she  did  in  her 
own  home.  She  was  not  without  influence,  either, 
over  the  other  servants  in  the  widower's  establish- 


MY    DUTY    TO    MY    NEIGHBOR  179 

ment.  They  knew  they  owed  their  places  to  her, 
and  they  were  anxious  to  obtain  her  good  opinion. 
Through  Eliza  many  hints  were  obtained  how  to  man 
age  about  certain  matters,  how  to  arrange  in  certain 
delicate  contingencies. 

"Why,  if  I  were  in  your  place,  Eliza,  I  should  tell 
the  cook  she'd  better  speak  to  Mr.  Andrews  about 
Martin's  coming  in  so  late.  It  is  always  best  to  be 
truthful  about  such  matters." 

"  Of  course  I  don't  know  anything  about  it  ;  but  it 
seems  to  me  the  waitress  would  do  much  better  to  put 
up  all  the  silver  that  is  not  in  use,  and  ask  Mr.  An 
drews  to  have  it  packed  away.  It  only  gives  addi 
tional  work,  and  can  do  no  one  any  good  ;  and  it  is 
really  rather  unsafe  to  have  so  much  about,  Mr.  An 
drews  is  away  so  many  nights." 

This  had  all  come  about  so  gradually,  Missy  would 
have  denied  indignantly  that  she  had  ever  put  a  finger 
in  her  neighbor's  pie  ;  whereas,  both  pretty  little  white 
hands  were  in  it  greedily,  all  ten  fingers,  all  the  time. 
Dear  Missy,  how  she  did  love  to  boss  it ! 

It  was  only  when  Gabrielle  turned  up  her  eyes, 
with  the  expression  that  she  had  had  in  them  that  hor 
rid  day  by  the  green-house  door — though  she  discreet 
ly  held  her  tongue — or  when  bv  rare  chance  Missy 

»/  v  •> 

passed  Mr.  Andrews  in  driving,  that  she  stiffened  up, 
and  felt  the  angry  aversion  coming  over  her  again. 
As  long  as  he  kept  out  of  sight  it  was  all  very  well  ; 
and  he  had  been  wise,  and  had  kept  out  of  sight  all 
the  winter  long. 

It  was  now  May  ;  and  perhaps  he  began  to  think  it 
would  be  very  rude  not  to  make  a  call  upon  his  neigh 
bors,  after  all  their  kindness  to  the  children  ;  perhaps 


180  MY    DUTY    TO    JIY    NEIGHBOR. 

he  began  to  grow  a  little  tired  of  his  freedom  from  the 
tyranny  of  women  ;  perhaps  his  evenings  were  a  trifle 
dull,  now  that  he  could  not  sit,  with  his  book,  between 
a  wood  fire  and  a  student  lamp.  Perhaps  he  came 
from  duty  ;  perhaps  he  came  because  he  wanted  to 
come  ;  but  at  all  events  he  came,  one  soft  May  eve 
ning,  in  the  twilight,  and  walked  up  the  steps  of  the 
piazza,  and  rang  the  bell  that  he  had  not  rung  for  six 
long  months  of  frost  and  snow.  It  is  certain  he 
felt  a  trifle  awkward  about  doing  it  ;  his  manner 
showed  that.  Missy  was  alone  in  the  library,  writing 
a  letter  by  the  lamp.  She  looked  up,  surprised,  when 
he  entered — indeed,  more  than  surprised.  They  were 
both  so  awkward  that  they  were  silent  for  a  moment — 
the  worst  thing  to  be. 

"It  seems  a  long  while  since  I  have  seen  you,  Miss 
Rothermel,"  said  Mr.  Andrews  ;  and  then  he  began  to 
see  how  much  better  it  would  have  been  not  to  say 
it.  It  was  so  absurd  for  people  living  side  by  side 
not  to  have  spoken  to  each  other  for  six  months.  It 
couldn't  have  happened  without  a  reason  ;  and  the  rea 
son  came,  of  course,  to  both  their  minds. 

"Yes,  I  believe  it  is,"  returned  Missy,  uncomforta 
bly.  "I  think  I  caught  sight  of  you,  one  day  last 
week,  coming  from  the  cars.  The  new  time-table  is  a 
great  improvement,  I  should  think.  I  suppose  you  get 
home  now  quite  early,  don't  you  ?" 

She  was  naturally  the  first  to  get  command  of  her 
self,  and  by  and  by  they  got  upon  safe  ground.  But 
Missy  was  uneasy,  stiff  ;  Mr.  Andrews  wished  the  visit 
over  many  times  before  it  was,  no  doubt. 

"I  will  call  my  aunt,"  said  Missy,  "she  enjoys 
visitors  so  much." 


MY    DUTY    TO    MY    NEIGHBOR.  181 

"  Which  is  more  than  you  do,"  thought  Mr. 
Andrews  as  he  watched  her  cross  the  room  and 
ring  a  bell.  But  Miss  Varian  was  long  in  coin 
ing. 

"Don't  you  think  Jay  is  growing  nicely?"  asked 
Mr.  Andrews,  trying  to  find  a  subject  that  was  safe, 
lie  dared  not  mention  Gabriel le,  of  course. 

"  Yes,  he  seems  very  well  this  spring.  And  he  is 
a  good  boy,  too,  I  think — for  him,  that  is." 

There  was  a  certain  pretty  softening  of  her  face, 
when  she  spoke  of  Jay,  that  never  escaped  Mr.  An 
drews.  He  liked  to  see  it,  it  amused  him  as  much  as 
it  pleased  him.  "Jay  has  made  his  first  conquest,"  he 
thought.  "This  severe  little  lady  is  perfectly  his 
Blave." 

"  I  am  afraid  he  troubles  you  with  his  frequent 
visits.  His  nurse  tells  me  he  insists  on  coming  very 
often,"  he  said  aloud. 

"  Oh,  he  never  troubles  me  ;  sometimes  I  do  not 
even  see  him.  He  is  great  friends  with  mamma." 

"  Mrs.  Varian  is  well,  I  hope?  I  have  thought 
very  often  your  brother's  absence  must  try  her  very 
much." 

Most  unreasonably  the  tears  rushed  into  Missy's 
eyes  at  the  allusion  to  her  brother.  The  letter  on  her 
lap  was  to  him,  and  she  was  rather  less  composed  than 
usual. 

"  We  bear  it,"  she  said,  "  as  people  bear  what  they 
cannot  help.  It  was  what  mamma  wanted  for  him, 
and  so,  in  some  ways,  it  seems  easier  to  her  than  to 
me.  Though  of  course  the  loss  falls  heaviest  on  her." 
This  was  more  than  she  had  ever  said  to  any  one,  and 


182  MY    DUTY    TO    MY    NEIGHBOR. 

she  conld  not  understand,  a  moment  after,  how  she 
could  have  said  it. 

"  It  was,''  he  said  thoughtfully,  "  a  grave  step  fot 
him  to  take  ;  I  confess  I  cannot  understand  his 
motives,  but,  young  as  he  is,  one  feels  instinctively  his 
motives  are  more  entitled  to  respect  than  those  of  most 
men." 

"I  cannot  respect  motives  that  give  me  so  much 
misery,"  she  said,  in  a  voice  that  trembled. 

At  this  moment  Miss  Varian  came  in.  While  Mr. 
Andrews  was  speaking  to  her,  and  while  the  severe 
hands  of  Goneril  were  arranging  her  a  seat,  Missy  had 
time  to  recollect  how  near  she  had  been  to  making 
Mr.  Andrews  a  confidant  of  her  feelings  about  her 
brother.  Mr.  Andrews,  who  had  broken  his  wife's 
heart  ;  a  pretty  confidant.  She  colored  high  with 
shame  and  vexation.  What  had  moved  her  to  so 
foolish  a  step.  She  was  losing  all  confidence  in  her 
self  ;  people  who  habitually  do  what  they  don't  mean 
to  do,  are  very  poor  reliance.  "I  always  mean  to  treat 
him  with  contempt,  and  I  very  rarely  do  it,"  she 
thought.  "It  is  amazing,  and  a  humiliation  to  me  to 
recall  the  way  in  which  I  always  begin  with  coldness, 
and  end  with  suavity,  if  not  with  intimacy." 

Pretty  soon,  Miss  Varian  began  to  ask  what  sort 
of  a  winter  he  had  had.  He  said  it  had  been  very 
quiet  and  pleasant,  and  that  spending  a  winter  in  the 
country  had  been  a  new  experience  to  him. 

"  You  must  have  found  it  very  dull,"  she  said.  "I 
hate  the  country  when  there's  nobody  in  it,  and  I 
wonder  you  could  want  to  staj7." 

"  But  there  was  somebody  in  it,"  said  Mr.  An 
drews,  with  a  frank  smile,  "  for  me.  A  little  boy  and 


MY    DUTY    TO    MY    NEIGHBOR.  183 

girl  that  are  of  more  importance  than  kings  and  crowns, 
God  bless  them." 

"  With  all  my  heart,"  said  Miss  Varian,  "  but  I 
didn't  know  you  were  so  domestic.  I'm  glad  to  be  able 
to  say,  I've  seen  a  man  who  would  give  up  his  club  and 
his  comfort  for  his  children.  Not  but  that  you  had 
some  comfort  here,  of  course.  It  wouldn't  do  to  say 
that  before  Missy,  who  organized  your  cabinet  for 
you,  didn't  she  ?  How  do  yonr  servants  get  along?  " 

"Very  well,  thank  you,"  said  Mr.  Andrews  un 
comfortably. 

"  And  have  you  taken  the  house  for  another  year  ?" 
went  on  the  speaker. 

"  Oh,  yes,  it  agrees  so  well  with  the  children  here," 
answered  Mr.  Andrews  apologetically.  "  I  did  not 
know  where  they  would  be  any  better  off." 

"  Well,  we  must  be  grateful  to  them  for  keeping 
you,  I  suppose.  I  don't  think  you  have  been  a  very 
valuable  neighbor  so  far,  however.  You  haven't  lived 
enough  in  the  country  to  know  what  is  expected  of 
neighbors,  perhaps." 

"  No,  I  must  confess — " 

"  Why,  neighbors  in  the  country  have  a  serious 
duty  in  the  winter.  They  spend  evenings  very  often 
together ;  they  play  cribbage,  they  bring  over  the 
evening  paper  ;  they  take  watches  to  town  to  be 
mended  ;  they  mail  letters,  they  even  carry  bundles." 

"I  should  think  Mr.  Andrews  would  give  up  the 
lease  of  his  house  if  you  put  much  more  before  him  as 
his  duty  for  next  winter." 

Missy  said  this  quite  loftily,  having  grown  red  and 
white,  possibly  a  little  yellow,  since  her  aunt  began 


184  MY    DUTY    TO    MY    NEIGHBOR. 

to  speak.  Her  loftiness,  perhaps, piqued  Mr.  Andrews 
a  little,  for  he  said,  turning  to  her  : 

"  Hasn't  a  neighbor  any  summer  duties  ?  I  hope 
Miss  Varian  will  make  me  out  a  list." 

"  With  pleasure,"  cried  Miss  Varian,  scenting  mis 
chief  in  the  air. 

"My  aunt's  ideas  of  duty  are  individual,  pray  let 
me  say,"  Missy  put  in,  in  not  the  most  perfectly  suave 
tone. 

"A  neighbor,  in  the  summer,"  went  on  Miss  Var- 
ian,  as  if  she  had  not  spoken.  "  a  neighbor  in  the  sum 
mer  comes  across  after  dinner,  and  smokes  his  cigar 
at  the  beach  gate,  if  any  of  the  family  are  sitting  on 
the  lawn.  In  rainy  weather  he  comes  over  for  a  game 
of  cards  ;  occasionally  he  comes  in  time  for  tea  ;  if  he 
has  a  sail-boat,  he  takes  his  neighbors  out  sometimes 
to  sail  ;  he  brings  them  peaches,  the  very  first  lhat 
come  to  market,  and  he  never  minds  changing  a  book 
at  the  library  in  town." 

"But  these  are  all  privileges  ;  you  were  going  to 
tell  me  about  duties,  were  you  not  ?" 

"  As  to  that,  you  may  call  them  what  you  please, 
they  are  the  whole  duty  of  man  in  the  country,  and  I 
can't  see  how  yon  ever  came  to  overlook  them  for  such 
a  length  of  time." 

"  You  shan't  be  able  to  reproach  me  any  more. 
Peaches  are  not  in  market ;  and  my  sail-boat  is  not 
out  of  winter  quarters.  But  I  might  change  a  library 
book  for  a  beginning.  Haven't  you  got  one  that  I 
might  try  my  hand  upon  ?" 

"  To  be  sure  I  have,"  said  this  hateful  woman,  with 
great  enjoyment  of  her  niece's  anger  ;  "  I  have  a  vol 
ume  of  Balzac  that  Goneril  has  just  got  through, 


MY    DUTY    TO    MY    NEIGHBOR,  185 

under  protest,  and  I'd  like  to  have  another,  to  make 
an  utter  end  of  her.  It's  my  only  chance  of  getting 
rid  of  her,  and  you  would  be  a  family  benefactor." 

"Please,  let  me  have  the  book,"  said  Mr.  Andrews. 
"  Is  it  this  one  on  the  table  ?" 

"  No,"  said  Miss  Varian.  "  I  don't  think  it  is 
down-stairs.  Missy,  ring  the  bell  for  Goneril  to  get 
it  ;  will  you  ?" 

Missy  had  been  sitting  with  her  head  turned  away, 
and  her  lips  pressed  together.  After  her  aunt  spoke, 
she  sat  quite  still  for  a  moment,  as  if  she  could  not 
bring  herself  to  execute  the  order  ;  then,  without 
speaking,  got  up  and  walked  across  to  the  bell,  and 
rang  it,  sitting  down  when  she  came  back,  a  little  fur 
ther  from  the  light,  and  from  the  two  talkers. 

"  Missy,  you've  got  through  with  the  book  your 
self,  haven't  you  ?"  said  her  aunt,  determined  to  make 
her  talk,  as  she  was  sure  her  voice,  if  she  could  be 
made  to  use  it,  would  show  her  agitation. 

That  was  Missy's  calamity.  Her  voice  was  very 
sweet  and  pleasant  ;  the  nicest  thing  about  her,  except 
her  feet  and  hands.  But  it  was  a  very  unmanageable 
gift,  and  it  registered  her  emotions  with  unfailing  ac 
curacy.  Missy  might  control  her  words,  occasionally, 
but  she  could  not  control  her  voice,  even  occasionaUy. 
It  was  never  shrill  in  anger,  but  it  was  tremulous  and 
husky,  and,  in  fine,  angry.  So  now,  when  she  an 
swered  her  aunt  that  she  had  not  seen  the  book,  and 
did  not  know  its  name,  and  did  not  want  to  read  it, 
the  words  were  faultless,  but  the  voice,  alas,  betrayed 
the  want  of  harmony  between  aunt  and  niece.  That 
Mr.  Andrews  had  suspected  since  his  earliest  acquaint 
ance  with  them. 


180  MY    DUTY     TO    MY    NEIGHBOR. 

"  Oh,  then,  I  won't  keep  it  out  for  you,"  Miss 
Varian  said  blithely.  "  But,  maybe  you'd  like  Mr. 
Andrews  to  take  back  your  Lecky  ;  I  heard  you 
say  at  breakfast  you  had  finished  it.  It  wouldn't  be 
much  more  trouble  to  take  two  than  one,  would  it,  Mr. 
Andrews?" 

"  Neither  would  be  any  trouble,  but  a  great  pleas 
ure,"  said  Mr.  Andrews,  civilly. 

"Thank  you  ;  but  there  is  no  need  to  put  it  upon 
you.  We  have  not  left  our  books  to  chance  bounty  ; 
the  expressman  is  trusty,  and  takes  them  regularly." 
"  We  sometimes  have  to  wait  three  days  !"  cried 
Miss  Varian,  annoyed  to  have  her  errand  look  like  a 
caprice. 

"  Well,  I  shall  try  to  be  more  prompt  than  the  ex 
pressman.  Perhaps  you'd  better  make  out  your  list, 
that  there  may  be  no  mistake." 

"  Missy,  get  a  card,  will  you,  and  make  out  a  list." 
Missy  again  got  up,  after  a  moment's  hesitation, 
looked  in  her  desk,  and  got  the  card  and  pencil,  and 
sat  down  as  if  waiting  for  further  orders.  In  the 
meanwhile  Goneril  had  come  in,  and  was  waiting,  like 
a  suppressed  volcano,  for  information  as  to  the  cause 
of  this  repeated  interruption  of  her  evening's  recrea 
tion.  Miss  Varian  sent  her  for  the  book,  and  then 
said,  "  Missy,  I  wish  you'd  get  the  card." 

"I  have  been  waiting  some  time,"  said  Missy. 
"  Well,  then,"  said  Miss  Varian,  pleasantly,  "  write 
out  a  list  of  Balzac,  beginning  with  '  Les  Petites  Mis- 
eres  de  la  Vie  Conjugate : — translated,  of  course,  for 
Goneril  can  hardly  read  English,  let  alone  French.  I 
owjht  to  have  a  French  maid." 

"Surely,"  said  Missy,  "  if  you  want  to  read  Balzac." 


MY    DUTY    TO    MY    NEIGHBOR.  187 

"I  do  want  to  read  him,  every  lino,"  returned  her 
aunt.  "  'Les  Petites  Misero*.'  Well,  let  me  see — what 
else  haven't  I  read  of  his?" 

Missy  paused  with  her  pencil  suspended  over  the 
paper  after  she  had  written  the  name.  She  disdained 
to  prompt. 

"Can't  you  think,  Missy?"  said  her  aunt  sharply. 

"  I  can't,"  said  Missy,  quietly. 

"  Well,  you're  not  often  so  short  of  words,  what 
ever  may  be  the  cause.  Mr.  Andrews,  I  beg  you 
won't  think  ill  of  my  niece's  intelligence.  She  is 
generally  able  to  express  herself.  You  have  read 
ever  so  many  of  Balzac's  books  aloud  to  me,  you 
must  know  their  names." 

"  I  don't  recall  them  at  this  moment,"  returned 
Missy,  using  her  pencil  to  make  a  little  fiend  turning  a 
somersault,  on  the  margin  of  the  evening  paper  which 
lay  beside  her. 

"  Can't  you  help  me,  Mr.  Andrews,"  said  Miss 
Varian,  a  little  tartly. 

"I,  oh,  certainly,"  said  Mr.  Andrews,  recalling 
himself  from  what  seemed  a  fit  of  absentmindedness. 
"  Some  of  the  names  of  Balzac's  books.  Let  me  see, 
'Cesar  Birotteau,'  'Le  Pere  Goriot' — " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  rnr-an  those.  I've  read  all  those,  of 
course.  I'd  like  some  of  the — well,  some  of  the  ones 
I  wouldn't  have  been  likely  to  have  read,  you  know. 
Missy,  there  was  one  you  were  so  horrified  about, 
but  you  were  fascinated  too.  Can't  you  think  what  it 
was  ?  It  occurs  to  me  I'd  like  to  try  it  again.  You're 
not  generally  so  stupid,  or  so  prudish,  whichever  it  may 
be."  Missy's  lips  grew  tight  ;  she  made  another  little 
fiend  on  the  paper,  before  she  trusted  herself  to  answer. 


188  MY    DUTY    TO    MY    NEIGHBOR. 

"  Perhaps,"  she  said,  handing  the  card  across  the 
table  to  her  aunt,  "you  had  better  leave  it  to  Mr. 
Andrews  and  the  librarian.  Maybe  between  them 
they  can  find  something  that  will  please  you." 

"  Well,  Mr.  Andrews,  then  I'll  have  to  leave  it  to 
you.  And  if  you  bring  me  something  that  I  have  read 
before,  it  will  be  Missy's  fault,  and  you'll  have  to  hold 
her  responsible  for  it." 

"  I  hope  I  shall  be  able  to  suit  you  ;  but  in  any  case, 
I  have  quite  a  lot  of  French  books  at  the  house,  which 
are  at  your  service." 

"  But,  you  see,  my  maid  can't  read  French,  and  so 
I  have  to  have  translations." 

"  Oh,  I  forgot.  Well,  perhaps,  Miss  Rothermel, 
some  of  them  might  suit  you,  if  you'd  let  me  send 
them  in  to  you." 

"  You  are  very  kind,"  said  Missy.  "  But  I  have 
my  reading  laid  out  for  two  months  to  come,  and  it 
would  be  impossible  for  me  to  take  up  anything  more." 

Mr.  Andrews  bowed,  and  got  up  to  take  his  leave. 
Miss  Varian  gave  him  the  card  and  her  hand  too,  and 
said  an  effusive  and  very  neighborly  good-night. 
Missy  half  rose,  and  bent  her  head,  but  did  not  offer 
to  put  out  her  hand. 

"  The  caprices  and  the  tempers  of  women,"  he 
thought,  as  he  went  home  under  the  big  trees  and  looked 
back  at  the  friendly  or  unfriendly  lights  gleaming  from 
the  library  window.  "  Their  caprices  and  their  tem 
pers  and  their  tongues  !" 

Nevertheless,  he  found  himself  speculating  upon 
which  of  Balzac's  books  Missy  had  been  fascinated 
with  and  horrified  about.  He  did  not  like  to  think  of 
her  as  reading  Balzac,  and  being  ashamed  to  own  it 


MT    DUTY    TO    MY    NEIGHBOR.  189 

too.  He  always  thought  of  her  as  a  "severe  little 
lady  ;  "  she  seemed  to  him,  with  all  her  caprice  and 
temper,  and  even  her  sharp  tongue,  as  the  embodiment 
of  all  the  domestic  virtues.  He  had  liked  her  face 
that  day  she  came  out  of  church,  with  her  blind  aunt 
on  her  arm,  and  little  Jay  close  at  her  side  ;  surely  she 
was  a  good  woman,  if  there  were  good  women  in  the 
world.  Nevertheless  (as  he  lit  his  cigar),  he  could 
have  wished  she  had  a  better  sense  of  justice,  and  did 
not  vent  on  him  the  anger  engendered  by  the  faults  of 
others. 

The  next  evening  promptly  upon  the  arrival  of  the 
carriage  from  the  train,  Eliza  and  Jay  brought  over 
"  Les  Petites  Miseres,"  and  another  of  Balzac  for  Miss 
Varian  from  the  library,  and  the  last  "  Saturday  Re 
view,"  "  Revue  des  Deux  Mondes  "  and  "  Punch  "  for 
Miss  Rothermel.  Missy  would  not  even  take  them  off 
the  table  where  her  aunt  had  laid  them  down.  She 
considered  it  quite  humbling  that  he  could  not  under 
stand  his  literature  had  been  refused.  She  had  quite 
prided  herself  on  the  decision  with  which  she  had 
nipped  in  the  bud  that  neighborliness,  and  here  he  was 
persistently  blooming  out  into  politeness  again. 

"  This  shall  be  put  an  end  to  forever,"  she  thought. 
"They  shall  go  back  with  their  leaves  uncut  to-mor 
row,  and  that  he  cannot  misconstrue." 


190  FIRE    AND    SWORD. 

CHAPTER  XII. 

FIRE  AND   SWORD. 


TIAT  evening,  however,  a  little  incident 
occurred  which  made  it  difficult,  nay,  even 
impossible,  to  send  the  papers  home  with 
their  leaves  uncut.  After  tea,  Missy  hur 
ried  out,  buttoning  a  sack  on,  and  looking  carefully 
around  to  see  that  she  was  not  followed  by  neighborly 
notice.  It  had  been  a  warm  and  lovely  day  ;  May  was 
melting  into  June  ;  the  evening  was  perfect,  the  sun 
not  quite  below  the  hills  as  yet.  Missy  went  across  the 
lawn  ;  the  lide  was  high,  and  there  was  little  wind.  She 
pulled  in  the  anchor  of  a  little  boat  that  rocked  on  the 
waves,  and  stepping  in,  took  the  oars  and  pushed  out. 
No  one  was  looking  ;  Mr.  Andrews  was  no  doubt  taking 
his  solid  and  comfortable  dinner,  and  had  not  yet  ven 
tured  to  accept  Miss  Varian's  invitation  to  come  and 
smoke  his  cigar  at  the  beach  gate.  Missy  had  resolved 
that  he  should  find  no  one  there  to  bear  iiiin  company, 
even  if  she  gave  up  her  favorite  after-tea  hour  on  the 
lawn,  all  summer.  She  pulled  out  into  the  bay,  with 
a  sense  of  getting  free  which  is  one  of  the  pleasures  of 
a  woman  on  a  horse  or  in  a  boat  by  herself.  Some  of  ' 
Missy's  happiest  hours  were  spent  skimming  over  the 
bay  like  a  May-fly.  No  one  could  recall  her  to  duty 
or  bondage  till  she  chose.  She  almost  forgot  Aunt 
Harriet  when  she  was  across  the  harbor  ;  housekeeping 
cares  fell  from  her  when  she  pushed  off  into  the  water, 


FIRE    AND    SWORD.  191 

and  only  came  back  when  the  keel  grated  on  the  shore 
again.  To-night  she  drew  a  long  breath  of  freedom 
as  she  pulled  herself,  with  light-dipping  oars,  far  out 
on  the  serene  blue  bay,  and  then,  i-esting,  held  her 
breath  and  listened.  How  sweet  and  placid  the  scene  ! 

Fret  and  headache,  sin  and  temptation  ! — it  was 
difficult  to  believe  in  them,  out  here  in  the  cool  and 
fresh  stillness,  palpitating  with  the  gentle  swell  of  the 
tide,  fanned  by  an  air  that  scarcely  moved  the  waters, 
transfigured  by  the  glorious  hues  that  overspread  the 
heavens  and  colored  sea  and  land.  "  It  is  good  to  be 
here.  Why  must  I  ever  go  back  again  ?"  she  thought, 
and  then  scorned  herself  for  the  unpractical  and  senti 
mental  longing.  "  At  any  rate,  I  shall  have  time  to  go 
over  to  the  West  Harbor,  before  it  is  night,  and  per 
haps  get  a  look  across  Oak  Neck  into  the  Sound." 

The  village  looked  tranquil  and  sweet  as  she  passed 
it  ;  the  smoke  rose  from  a  chimney  here  and  there  ; 
the  faint  sounds  came  out  to  her  like  a  dream  ;  a 
little  motion  attracted  the  eye  now  and  then,  where 
the  road  was  not  hidden  by  the  trees  ;  a  boatman 
moved  about  on  the  shore,  but  slowly,  musically.  The 
rich  verdure  of  the  early  summer  fields  crept  down  to 
the  yellow  strip  of  sand,  upon  which  the  waters  plashed  ; 
two  or  three  spires  reached  up  into  the  rosy  sky  ;  pretty 
cottages  peeped  through  the  silent  trees,  green  lawns 
lay  with  the  evening  shadows  stretching  across  them. 
It  was  hard  to  believe  that  there,  in  that  tranquillity, 
nestled  sin  and  sickness  ;  that  there  people  went  to 
law  with  each  other,  and  drove  sharp  bargains,  and 
told  lies.  That  there  indigestion  and  intemperance 
had  their  victims  ;  that  lust  laid  its  cruel  wait  beneath 
that  shade,  that  hypocrisy  there  played  its  little  part. 


192  FIEE    AND     SWORD. 

"  I  will  believe  only  what  I  see,"  thought  Missy, 
gliding  past.  "All  is  lovely  and  serene."  It  was  a 
long  pull  to  the  West  Harbor.  The  pink  had  faded 
from  the  sky  and  from  the  waters  before  she  turned 
towards  home.  She  paddled  along  the  shores  of  the 
little  island  that  lies  opposite  Yellowcoats,  and  shuts  in 
its  pretty  harbor  from  the  Sound,  and  watched  the 
changing  of  the  sky  from  rose  color  to  gray,  and  from 
gray  to  deep,  dark  blue, and  the  coming  out  of  a  silver 
thread  of  moon,  and  of  a  single  star.  Then  one  by 
one  she  saw  lights  glimmer  in  the  distant  village,  and 
one,  a  little  brighter  and  sharper  than  the  rest,  that 
even  made  for  a  moment  a  light  against  the  sky. 

"Lady  Bird,  Lady  Bird,  fly  away  home, 
Your  house  is  on  fire,  and  your  children  will  burn," 

she  sang  to  herself  as  she  rowed  across  the  bay,  with 
her  back  to  the  place  she  was  going  to,  as  is  the  sad 
necessity  of  rowers.  She  neared  the  shore  just  below 
Ship  Point,  and  then,  turning  around  her  head,  stopped 
involuntarily  to  listen,  as  she  heard  the  sound  of  a  bell. 
It  must  have  been  a  fire,  after  all,  she  thought  ;  for 
while  she  rowed  across  the  bay,  she  had  forgotten  the 
sudden  light  that  made  her  think  of  Lady  Bird,  and 
the  sound  of  her  oars  had  kept  her  from  hearing  the 
bells  which  had  been  ringing  for  some  time,  no  doubt. 
Her  first  impulse  was  to  spring  on  shore,  and  run 
up  the  lane  towards  the  houses  that  lay  on  the  out 
skirts  of  the  village,  and  hear  what  was  the  matter. 
Then  she  reflected  that  she  could  do  no  good,  and  that 
her  absence  and  the  fire  together  might  upset  her 
mother;  so  she  soberly  turned  her  boat  towards  home, 


FIRE    AND     SWORD.  193 

speculating  nevertheless,  upon  the  chances  of  the  fire, 
and  wondering  whose  old  barn  or  out-house  had  fallen 
victim  to  the  heel  of  its  owner's  pipe.  She  certainly 
had  no  feeling  of  personal  interest  in  the  matter, 
further  than  as  all  Yellowcoats  was  of  personal  in 
terest  to  her. 

But  as  she  neared  the  steamboat  landing,  and 
came  opposite  a  stretch  of  road  that  was  clear  of  trees, 
she  could  hear  voices,  and  see  people  moving  along  it. 

A  sudden  feeling  of  fright  came  over  her,  for  be- 

o  o  * 

yond  the  steamboat  landing  were  but  two  houses,  their 
own,  and  Mr.  Andrews'.  She  pulled  with  all  her 
strength  and  her  boat  shot  through  the  water,  but  it 
seemed  to  her  she  crept,  and  that  she  had  time  to  go 
through  scenes  of  misfortune  and  trouble  enough  to  turn 
her  gray.  She  could  see  no  blaze,  but  the  bells  down 
in  the  village  were  still  pealing  forth  their  call.  There 
was  just  light  enough  to  see  motion  upon  the  road, 
and  hear  voices,  and  there  must  have  been  a  multitude 
of  them  to  have  been  audible  above  the  dash  of  her 
quick  oars. 

She  scarcely  dared  look  around  when  she  felt  the 
keel  touch  the  stones  ;  no,  it  was  not  the  Andrews' 
house  !  What  a  sight  on  their  own  lawn  !  Volumes 
of  smoke  covered  the  house  ;  a  score  of  people 
thronged  the  place  ;  men  with  lanterns  were  calling 
and  shouting  ;  piles  of  what  looked  like  furniture  lay 
about  ;  women  were  flitting  here  and  there  on  the  out 
skirts  of  the  crowd,  she  could  see  their  light  clothes 
through  the  haze.  It  was  all  so  dim,  she  felt  more 
terror  than  if  a  great  flame  had  towered  up  and  showed 
her  all.  Springing  from  the  boat,  she  ran  to  the 
beach  gate,  now  lying  off  its  hinges  on  the  sand. 
9 


104  FIRE    AND    SWORD. 

"What  is  it?"  she  said  faintly  to  the  first  person 
she  encountered.  One  of  the  maids,  hearing  her 
voice,  ran  towards  her  from  a  group  where  she  had 
been  standing  uselessly  telling  her  story  over  and 
over. 

"  What  is  all  this,  Ann  ?"  she  said,  hurrying  for 
ward  to  meet  the  girl. 

"  O  Miss  Rothermel  !  Oh  !  Oh  !  "  she  cried,  and 
bursting  into  tears  ran  off,  throwing  her  apron  over 
her  head.  Missy's  limbs  shook  under  her.  Her  one 
thought  was,  of  course,  her  mother.  She  struggled 
forward  through  the  crowd,  on  this  part  of  the  lawn, 
all  men. 

"  Keep  back  now,  keep  back.  We  don't  want  no 
women  here,"  cried  a  man,  pushing  her  away,  without 
looking  at  her.  They  were  working  stoutly  at  some- 
thin  f,  she  didn't  know  what.  The  crowd  were  being 

O '  ~ 

pushed  back.  The  smoke  was  suffocating,  the  ground 
uncertain  ;  ladders  and  furniture  seemed  under  her  feet 
at  every  step.  She  could  not  speak,  she  did  not  rec 
ognize  the  man  who  pushed  her  back,  nor  could  she, 
through  the  smoke,  see  any  face  clearly  enough  to 
know  it.  She  heard  a  good  many  oaths,  and  knew 
that  the  crowd  were  very  much  in  the  way,  and  that 
the  men  at  work  were  swearing  at  those  who 
hindered  them.  Still  she  struggled  to  get  nearer. 
Every  moment  she  seemed  to  grow  weaker, 
and  every  moment  the  horror  of  failing  to  get 
to  her  mother,  seemed  to  grow  stronger.  At  last  she 
saw  what  they  were  trying  to  do,  to  get  a  rope 
stretched  round  the  house,  to  keep  back  the  crowd, 
perhaps  from  danger,  perhaps  from  plunder.  She 
heard  above  the  noise,  Mr.  Andrews'  voice  in  com- 


FIRE    AND     SWORD.  195 

maml  ;  the  crowd  seemed  to  obey  him.  A  line  was 
stretched  across  the  lawn,  some  thirty  feet  from  the 
house,  and  the  idle  people  were  pressed  back  behind  it. 
Missy  by  a  desperate  effort  writhed  through  the 
crowd,  and  caught  at  the  rope,  and  held  by  that, 
though  pushed  and  swayed  up  and  down,  and  almost 
crushed  between  her  taller  and  more  powerful  neigh 
bors.  Mr.  Andrews,  passing  along  inside  the  cleared 
space,  was  calling  out  some  orders  to  the  men.  lie 
passed  within  a  foot  or  two  of  where  she  stood,  and 
she  found  voice  enough  to  call  to  him  and  make  him 
hear. 

"Where  are  you?"  he  said,  hurriedly,  coming 
towards  her  through  the  darkness. 

"  Let  me  come  to  where  you  are,"  she  gasped, 
stretching  out  one  hand  to  him,  but  keeping  the  other 
fast  closed  over  the  rope. 

"  Let  Miss  liothermel  pass  there  ;  fall  back,  won't 
you,  quick." 

They  obeyed  him,  falling  back,  and  in  a  moment 
Missy  stood  free  inside  the  rope,  holding  desperately 
to  the  hand  Mr.  Andrews  had  stretched  out  to  her. 

"  Mamma — "  she  said,  brokenly,  "  tell  me  if  she  is 
hurt," 

"She  is  safe — all  right — I  took  her,  at  the  first 
alarm,  to  my  house.  You'd  better  get  to  her  as 
quickly  as  you  can.  Come  with  me,  I  will  get  you 
through  the  crowd  ;  it  is  less  on  this  side  of  the  house." 

He  hurried  her  forward  ;  she  stumbled  and  nearly 
fell  over  a  roll  of  carpet,  and  seemed  to  be  walking 
over  an  expanse  of  books  and  table-covers  and  candle 
sticks. 

"  Don't  worry  about  any  of  these  things,"  he  said, 


196  FIRE    AND    SWORD. 

"  they'll  all  be  safe,  now  the  crowd  are  all  behind  the 
rope." 

"I  don't  worry  about  anything,"  she  said,  "but 
mamma." 

"  You  can  be  easy  about  her  ;  there,  I  can't  be 
spared  here,  I  think  you  can  get  on  now.  Tell  her  the 
fire  is  all  out,  and  there  is  nothing  to  worry  about.  I 
will  see  to  everything.  Ho,  there,  let  Miss  Rothermel 
through,  will  you?" 

She  crawled  under  the  rope,  and  the  people  made 
•way  for  her  very  promptly.  It  was  so  dark,  she  could 
not  recognize  any  of  them,  but  she  heard  several 
familiar  voices,  and  offers  of  assistance.  She  was  soon 
out  of  the  press,  and  then  ran  fleetly  through  the  gate 
and  out  into  the  road,  and  then  through  the  gate  of 
the  Andrews'  cottage,  and  in  a  moment  more  was 
kneeling  by  her  mother's  side.  Mrs.  Varian,  at  the 
sight  of  her,  broke  down  completely,  and  sobbed  upon 
her  shoulder.  She  had  been  perfectly  calm  through 
all  the  excitement,  but  the  relief  of  seeing  Missy  was 
more  than  she  could  bear.  No  one  had  known  where 
she  was,  and  there  had  been  unspoken  terror  in  the 
mother's  mind.  A  few  hurried  explanations  were  all 
that  she  could  give.  An  alarm  of  fire  had  reached  her 
in  her  room,  about  twilight,  and  an  oppressive  odor  of 
smoke  and  burning  wood.  She  had  heard  cries  and 
exclamations  of  fright  from  the  servants,  and  Goneril, 
in  all  haste,  had  run  for  Mr.  Andrews.  In  a  moment 
he  was  on  the  spot,  and  no  words  could  express  her 
gratitude  for  his  consideration,  and  her  admiration  for 
his  energy.  Before  anything  else  was  done  save  to 
send  the  alarm  to  the  village  (which  was  the  work  of 
an  instant,  as  a  horse  was  saddled  at  the  door),  he  had 


FIRE    AND     SWOHD.  197 

insisted  upon  bringing  her  here  ;  she  had  walked  down 
the  stairs,  but  the  smoke  and  the  excitement  had  over 
come  her,  and  he  had  lifted  her  in  his  arms,  and  car 
ried  her  out  of  her  house  into  his  own.  After  a 
little  time  Goneril  had  appeared,  leading  Miss  Varian, 
and  bringing  a  reassuring  message  from  Mr.  Andrews. 
The  people  from  the  village,  she  said,  had  got  there 
in  an  incredible  time.  All  Yellowcoats,  certainly, 
had  gone  in  at  that  gate,  Miss  Varian  said,  coming 
into  the  room  at  that  moment,  guiding  herself  by  the 
door-posts  and  wainscoting  in  the  unfamiliar  place. 
Certainly  she  should  alter  her  opinion  of  the  extent  of 
the  population  after  this.  And  every  man,  woman 
and  child  in  all  the  town  swarmed  round  the  place 
ten  minutes  after  the  alarm  was  given,  and  were  there 
yet,  though  the  fire  had  been  out  for  almost  half  an 
hour. 

"  And,"  she  went  on,  addressing  Missy,  "  if  it 
hadn't  been  for  this  neighbor  of  ours,  that  you  have 
been  pleased  to  snub  so  mightily,  I  think  we  shouldn't 
have  had  a  roof  over  our  heads,  nor  a  stitch  of  cloth 
ing  but  what  we  have  upon  our  backs.  Such  a  crowd 
of  incapables  as  you  have  in  your  employ.  Such  wring 
ing  of  hands,  such  moaning,  such  flying  about  with  no 
purpose.  And  even  Peters  lost  his  head  completely. 
If  Mr.  Andrews  and  Goneril  hadn't  set  them  to  work, 
and  kept  them  at  it  till  the  others  came,  there  would 
have  been  no  help  for  us.  Mr.  Andrews  insisted  upon 
my  coming  away,  ordered  me,  in  fact.  But  I  forgave 
him  before  I  had  got  out  the  gate,  though  I  was  pretty 
mad  at  first." 

"  I  wonder  if  I  ought  not  to  go  and  see  if  I  can  be 
of  use,"  said  Missy,  irresolutely,  rising  up. 


198  FIRE    AND    SWORD. 

But  the  start  and  flutter  in  her  mother's  hand  made 
her  sit  down  again. 

"  It's  ray  advice  to  you  to  stay  where  you  are,"  said 
her  aunt.  "  \Ve  are  a  lot  of  imbeciles,  all  of  us.  We 
are  better  out  of  the  way.  It  isn't  very  pleasant  to 
think  of  the  linen  closet  emptied  upon  the  lawn,  and 
all  Yellowcoats  tramping  over  it,  but  it's  better  than 
being  suffocated  in  the  smoke,  or  crushed  to  death  in 
the  crowd." 

Missy  gave  her  mother  a  reassuring  pressure  of  the 
hand,  and  did  not  move  again.  They  were  indeed  a 
company  of  useless  beings.  It  was  a  strange  experience 
to  her  to  be  sitting  still  and  thinking  the  destruction 
of  her  household  goods  a  light  misfortune.  That  linen 
closet,  from  which  the  unaccounted-for  absence  of  a 
pillow-case,  would  have  given  her  hours  of  annoyance; 
the  book-cases,  where  order  reigned  and  where  dust 
never  was  allowed  ;  the  precious  china  on  the  dining- 
room  shelves,  only  moved  by  her  own  hands — fur  all 
these  she  had  not  a  thought  of  anxiety,  as  she  felt  her 
mother's  hand  in  hers.  The  relief  from  the  fears  of 
that  quarter  of  an  hour,  while  she  was  making  her  way 
through  the  crowd,  had  had  the  effect  of  making  these 
losses  quite  unfelt.  Subdued,  and  nervously  exhausted 
too,  she  sat  beside  her  mother,  while  the  noises  gradu 
ally  subsided  on  the  grounds  adjoining.  The  house 
was  but  a  stone's  throw  from  the  road,  and  from  the 
Varians'  gate,  and  Miss  Yarian,  with  keen  ear.  sitting 
on  the  piazza  outside,  interpreted  the  sounds  to  those 
within. 

"  Xow  the  women  are  beginning  to  go  home,"  she 
said.  "  The  children  are  fretting  and  sleepy  ;  there, 
that  one  got  a  slap.  Now  the  teams,  hitched  to  the 


FIRE    AND    SWORD.  199 

trees  outside,  are  unhitched  and  going  away.  I  wonder 
how  much  plunder  is  being  stowed  away  in  the  bottom 
of  the  wagons.  I  feel  as  if  rny  bureau  drawers  were 
going  off  in  lots  to  suit  pilferers.  There  now,  the  boys 
and  men  are  beginning  to  straggle  off  in  pairs.  You 
may  be  sure  there  isn't  anything  to  see,  if  they  are 
going.  Talk  of  the  curiosity  of  women.  Men  and 
boys  hang  on  long  after  their  legs  give  out.  Ah  !  now 
we're  beginning  to  get  toward  the  end  of  the  enter 
tainment,  I  should  think.  I  hear  Mr.  Andrews  calling 
out  to  the  men  to  clear  the  grounds,  and  see  that  the 
gates  are  shut ;  ah,  bang  goes  the  front  gate.  Well, 
I  should  think  the  poor  man  might  be  tired  by  this 
time.  I  should  think  he  might  come  in  and  leave 
things  in  charge  of  some  of  those  men  who  have  been 
working  with  him." 

The  clock  in  the  parlor  struck  ten,  and  then  half- 
past.  Eliza,  who  had  been  watching  the  children,  and 
making  up  some  beds  above,  now  came  down  and 
begged  Mrs.  Varian  to  come  up  and  go  to  bed,  but  she 
refused.  The  other  servants,  who  had  been  over  at 
the  fire,  possibly  helping  a  little,  now  came  in,  bring 
ing  a  message  from  Mr.  Andrews,  that  he  begged  they 
would  all  go  to  bed  ;  and  that  everything  was  safe  and 
they  must  feel  no  anxiety.  It  might  be  some  time  be 
fore  he  could  get  away.  Missy  persuaded  her  aunt 
and  her  mother  to  go  up.  Eliza  conducted  Miss  Varian 
to  a  small  "spare  "  room.  Missy  felt  a  shudder  as  she 
put  down  her  candle  on  the  dressing-table  of  the  room 
where  she  had  seen  Mrs.  Andrews  die.  She  hoped  her 
mother  did  not  know  it. 

While  she  was  arranging  her  for  the  night,  she  had 
time  to  observe  the  room.  It  was  very  much  changed 


290  FIRE    AND    SWORD. 

since  she  had  last  been  in  it  ;  the  pictures  were  taken 
from  the  walls,  the  position  of  the  furniture  altered, 
she  was  not  sure  but  that  it  was  other  furniture.  Cer 
tainly  the  sofa  and  footstool  and  large  chair  were 
gone.  Mr.  Andrews  himself  occupied  the  small  room 
on  the  other  side  of  the  house  that  he  had  had  from 
the  first.  This  room,  the  largest  and  best  in  the  house, 
had  been  kept  as  a  sort  of  day  nursery  for  the  chil 
dren  through  the  winter.  Missy  had  often  thought  of  it 
as  calculated  to  keep  alive  the  memory  of  their  mother, 
but  now  it  seemed,  as  if  with  purpose,  that  had  been 
avoided,  and  as  if  the  whole  past  of  the  room  was  to 
be  wiped  out. 

It  could  be  no  chance  that  had  worked  such  a 
change.  There  were  holes  still  in  the  wall  where  a 
bracket  had  been  taken  down.  A  new  clock  was  on 
the  mnntelpiece  ;  there  was  literally  not  a  thing  left  the 
same,  not  even  the  carpet  on  the  floor.  It  gave  her  a 
feeling  of  resentment  ;  but  this  was  not  the  moment  to 
feel  resentment.  So  she  went  softly  down  the  stairs, 
telling  her  mother  to  try  to  sleep,  and  she  would  wait 
up,  and  see  if  she  could  do  anything  more  than  thank 
Mr.  Andrews  when  he  came  in.  This  was  no  more 
than  civil  ;  but  strangely,  Missy  did  not  feel  civil,  as 
she  sat  counting  the  minutes  in  the  parlor  below.  She 
felt  as  if  it  were  odious  to  be  there,  odious  to  feel  that 
lie  was  working  for  them,  that  she  must  be  grateful  to 
him.  All  her  past  prejudices,  which  had  been  dying 
out  in  the  silence  of  the  last  few  months,  and  under 
the  knowledge  of  his  steady  kindness  to  his  children, 
came  back  as  she  went  up  into  that  room,  which,  to  her 
vivid  imagination,  must  always  bring  back  the  most 
painful  scene  she  had  ever  witnessed.  She  had  never 


FIRE    AND    SWORD.  201 

expected  to  enter  this  house  again,  at  least  while  its 
present  tenants  occupied  it,  and  here  she  was,  and  cer 
tain  to  stay  here  for  one  night  and  day  at  least.  She 
had  had  none  of  these  feelings  as  she  sat  during  the 

o  o 

evening  silently  thankful  beside  her  mother  ;  all  this 
tumult  of  resentment  had  come  since  she  had  gone  up 
stairs.  The  memory  of  the  beautiful  young  creature, 
whose  dreadful  death  she  had  witnessed,  came  back  to 
her  with  strange  power  ;  and  the  thought  that  she  had 
been  banished  from  her  children's  minds  made  her 
almost  vindictive.  IIo\v  can  I  speak  to  him  ?  how  have 
I  ever  spoken  to  him  ?  she  thought,  as  her  eyes  wan 
dered  around  the  room,  searching  for  some  trace  of  her. 
But  it  was  thoroughly  a  man's  apartment,  "bachelor 
quarters  "  indeed.  Not  a  picture  of  the  woman  whose 
beauty  would  have  graced  a  palace  ;  not  a  token  that 
she  had  ever  been  under  this  roof,  that  she  had  died 
here  less  than  a  year  ngo.  The  nurse  had  come  into 
the  room  as  Missy  sat  waiting,  and,  seeming  to  divine 
her  thought,  said,  while  she  put  straight  chairs  and 
books  : 

"  Isn't  it  strange,  Miss  Rothermel,  that  there  i*if  t 
any  picture  of  Mrs.  Andrews  anywhere  about  trie 
house?  I  should  think  their  father  would  be  afraid  of 
the  children  forgetting  all  about  her.  I  often  talk  to 
them  about  her,  but  I  don't  know  much  to  say,  because 
none  of  us  ever  saw  her  ;  and  Mr.  Andrews  never  talks 
about  her  to  them,  and  I  am  sure  Jay  doesn't  remem 
ber  her  at  all.  There  was  once  a  little  box  that  Jay 
dragged  out  of  a  closet  in  the  attic,_and  in  the  evening 
after  he  found  it,  he  was  playing  with  it  in  the  parlor 
by  his  father,  and  Gabby  caught  sight  of  it,  and  cried, 
'  That's  my  mamma's  box  ;  give  it  to  me,  Jay.'  They 
9* 


202  FIRE    AND    SWORD. 

had  a  little  quarrel  for  it,  and  Gabby  got  it,  and  then 
Jay  forgot  all  about  it,  and  went  to  play  with  some 
thing  else.  But,"  went  on  Eliza,  lowering  her  voice, 
"  that  evening  I  saw  Mr.  Andrews,  after  the  children 
had  gone  to  bed,  empty  all  Gabrielle's  things  out  of  the 
box,  and  carry  it  up  stairs,  and  put  it  away  in  a  locked- 
up  closet  in  the  hall." 

"  Probably  he  wanted  to  punish  her  for  taking  it 
away  from  Jay,"  said  Missy,  insincerely,  feeling  all  the 
time  that  it  was  not  the  thing  for  her  to  be  allowing 
Eliza  to  tell  her  this. 

"  No,"  said  Eliza,  "  for  he  brought  her  home  a  beau 
tiful  new  box  the  next  evening,  and  he  wouldn't  have 
done  that  if  he  had  wished  to  punish  her,  I  think." 

"Eliza,  don't  you  think  you'd  better  see  if  the 
fire  is  good  in  the  kitchen  ?  Mr.  Andrews  might  want 
a  cup  of  coffee  made,  or  something  cooked  to  eat.  He 
must  be  very  tired." 

Eliza  meekly  received  her  dismissal,  and  went  into 
the  kitchen.  At  half-past  eleven  o'clock  Missy  heard 
the  gate  open,  and  went  forward  to  meet  Mr.  Andrews 
at  the  door. 

"  You  are  very  tired,"  she  said,  falteringly. 
"  I  believe  I  am,"  he  returned,  following  her  into 
the  parlor.  She  was  shocked  when  she  saw  him  fully 
in  the  light  of  the  lamp.  He  looked  tired  indeed,  and 
begrimed  with  smoke,  his  coat  torn,  his  arm  tied  up  in 
a  rude  fashion,  as  if  it  had  been  hurt. 

"Sit  down,"  she  said,  hurriedly  pulling  out  a  chair. 
He  stumbled  into  it. 

"  I  really  didn't  know  how  tired  I  was,"  he  said, 
laying  back  his  head. 


FIRE    AND    SWORD.  203 

"Can't  I  get  you  some  coffee,  or  some  wine?  You 
ought  to  take  something  at  once,  I  think." 

"I'd  like  a  glass  of  wine,"  he  said,  rather  faintly. 
"Here's  the  key.  You'll  find  it  in  the  sideboard." 

But  when  he  attempted  to  get  the  hand  that  wasn't 
bandaged  into  his  pocket,  he  stopped,  with  a  gesture 
of  pain. 

"  Confound  it !"  he  said  ;  "  it's  a  strain,  I  suppose  ;" 
and  then  he  grew  rather  white. 

"Lot  me  get  it,"  said  Missy,  hurriedly. 

"  The  inside  pocket  of  my  coat — left  side,"  he  said. 

She  fumbled  in  the  pocket,  rather  agitatedly,  feel 
ing  very  sorry  that  he  was  so  suffering,  but  not  sorry 
enough  to  make  her  forget  that  it  was  very  awkward 
for  her  to  be  bending  over  him  and  searching  in  his 
inside  pocket  for  a  key.  At  last  she  found  it,  and  ran 
and  fetched  the  wine.  He  seemed  a  little  better  when 
he  drank  it. 

"What  is  the  matter  with  your  arm  ?"  she  said, 
standing  by  him  to  take  back  the  glass. 

"A  ladder  fell  on  it,"  he  said. 

"  And  you  sent  for  the  doctor,  did  you  ?" 

"  The  doctor,  no  !  What  time  has  there  been  to  be 
sending  off  for  doctors  ?"  he  returned,  rather  impa 
tient!}-,  turning  himself  in  the  chair,  but  with  a  groan. 
Missy  ran  out  of  the  room,  and  in  two  minutes  some 
body  was  on  the  way  to  the  village  for  the  doctor. 
Eliza  came  back  into  the  room  with  her. 

"Can't  you  get  on  the  sofa?  and  we'll  make  you 
easier,"  said  Missy,  standing  by  him. 

But  he  shook  his  head.  "  I  think  I'll  rest  a  little 
here,"  he  said,  "  and  then  get  to  my  room." 

"  I  know  ;  I've  sent  for  the  doctor,  but  I  am  afraid 


204  FIRE    AND    SWORD. 

it  will  be  some  time  before  he  conies.  I  thought  I 
might  be  doing  something  for  your  hand  that's 
strained  ,  I  am  afraid  to  meddle  with  your  arm.  Do 
you  think  your  shoulder's  out  of  place,  or  anything 
like  that  ?" 

"No,  I  hardly  think  it  is,"  he  said.  It's  more  likely 
nothing  but  a  bruise  ;  but  it  hurts  like — thunder  !" 

This  last  came  from  an  attempt  to  get  out  of  his 
chair.  Missy  shook  up  the  pillows  of  the  sofa. 

"  See,"  she  said,  "you'll  be  more  comfortable  here  ; 
let  Eliza  help  you."  He  submitted,  and  got  to  the 
sofa.  "  Now,  before  you  lie  down,  let  us  get  your 
coat  off,"  she  said.  She  felt  as  if  he  were  Jay,  and 
must  ba  coaxed.  But  getting  the  coat  off  was  not  an 
easy  matter  ;  in  fact,  it  was  an  impossible  matter. 

"It's  torn  a  good  deal,"  she  said  ;  "  you  wouldn't 
care  if  I  got  the  scissors  and  cut  it  a  little?" 

"  Cut  it  into  slivers  !"  be  said,  concisely.  He  was 
evidently  feeling  concisely,  poor  man  ! 

Eliza  flew  for  the  scissors  ;  in  a  moment  Missy's 
pretty  fingers  had  done  the  work,  and  the  poor  muti 
lated  coat  fell  to  the  floor,  a  sacrifice  to  neighborly 
devotion.  "  Now  run  and  get  me  a  pail  of  boiling 
water,  and  some  flannels — quick.  In  the  meantime, 
Mr.  Andrews,  turn  your  hand  a  little  ;  I  want  to  get  at 
the  button  of  your  sleeve.  Oh,  dear  !  don't  move  it ; 
I  see.  Here  go  the  scissors  again.  I'll  mend  the  sleeve 
for  you,  I  promise  ;  it's  the  least  that  I  can  do.  There  ! 
now  it's  all  right.  Now  let  me  get  this  towel  under 
your  wrist.  Ah  !  I  know  it  hurt ;  but  it  had  to  be 
done.  Now  here's  the  hot  water.  Eliza,  kneel  here 
by  Mr.  Andrews  ;  and  as  fast  as  I  hand  you  the 
flannel,  put  it  on  his  wrist — see,  just  there." 


FIRE    AND    SWORD.  205 

Missy  withdrew,  and  gave  her  place  to  Eliza  ;  but 
the  first  touch  of  her  hands  to  the  flannel  which  she 
was  to  wring  out  made  her  jump  so,  she  felt  sure  she 
never  could  do  justice  to  them. 

"  You'd  better  let  me  wring  out  the  flannels,  Miss 
Rothermel,  and  you  put  them  on,"  said  Eliza.  "  My 
hands  are  used  to  hot  water."  So  Missy  went  back  to 
her  place,  and  knelt  beside  her  patient,  taking  the 
steaming  flannels  from  Eliza's  hand,  and  putting  them 
on  his  wrist.  Before  she  put  each  one  on,  she  held  it 
up  against  her  cheek,  to  see  that  it  was  not  too  hot. 
She  was  as  gentle  and  as  tender  and  as  coaxing  as  if 
she  were  taking  care  of  little  Jay.  It  is  a  question 
how  much  sentiment  a  man  in  severe  pain  is  capable  of 
feeling.  But  certainly  it  ought  to  have  been  a  solace 
to  any  one  to  be  tended  by  such  a  sweet  little  nurse  as 
this.  Who  would  think  that  she  could  spit  fire,  or 
snub  her  neighbors,  or  "  boss"  it,  even  over  servants? 

Missy  was  a  born  nurse.  She  was  quick-witted, 
nimble-fingered,  sure-footed,  and  she  was  coaxing  and 
tender  when  people  were  "down."  She  was  absolutely 
sweet  when  any  one  was  cornered  or  prostrate,  and 
couldn't  do  any  way  but  hers. 

The  hot  cloths,  which  had  stung  him  a  little  at 
first,  soon  began  to  relieve  the  pain  in  his  wrist. 

"  There,  now,  I  told  you  it  would.  You  were 
so  good  to  let  us  do  it.  Do  bear  it  a  little  longer, 
please." 

Missy's  eyes  had  wandered  to  the  clock  many  times, 
and  her  ears  had  been  strained  to  catch  the  sound  of 
the  doctor's  steps  outside.  But  it  was  now  an  hour 
since  the  messenger  had  gone,  and  it  was  very  certain 
he  could  not  have  been  at  home.  When  he  might 


206  FIRE    AND    SWORD. 

come,  how  many  miles  away  be  was  at  this  moment, 
it  was  impossible  to  guess.  She  knew  very  well  that 
the  other  arm  was  the  real  trouble  ;  and  she  knew, 
too,  that  leaving  it  for  so  many  hours  unattended  to 
might  make  it  a  bad  business.  Her  experience  never 
had  gone  beyond  sprains  and  bruises,  but  she  had  the 
courage  of  genius  ;  she  would  have  tackled  a  com 
pound  fracture  if  it  had  come  in  her  way. 

"  That  tiresome  doctor,"  she  said,  sweetly.  "  I 
wonder  when  he'll  get  here.  See,  I've  muffled  up  the 
wrist  in  this  hot  bandage.  Now  suppose  we  try 
if  we  can't  do  something  for  this  arm  over  here.  I'll 
be  ever  so  gentle.  Now  see,  I  didn't  hurt  you  much 
before." 

Mr.  Andrews'  face  contracted  with  pain  as  she 
touched  his  wounded  arm,  even  in  the  lightest  manner. 
In  fact,  he  was  bearing  as  much  pain  as  he  thought 
he  couM,  without  having  it  touched.  But  it  wasn't  in 
nature  to  resist  her,  and  he  turned  a  little  on  his  side, 
and  the  scissors  flew  up  his  sleeve  and  laid  bare  the 
bruised,  discolored  arm. 

"You  see,"  she  said,  softly  getting  a  piece  of 
oil-silk  under  it,  "if  it  is  only  bruised  this  will 
help  it,  and  if  it's  broken  or  out  of  joint  or  anything, 
it  will  not  do  any  harm.  It  doesn't  hurt  you  when  I 
touch  it  here,  does  it  V"  she  went  on,  watching  his  face 
keenly  as  she  passed  her  hand  lightly  over  his  shoulder. 

"It  hurts  everywhere,"  he  answered  groaning,  but 
he  did  not  wince  particularly. 

"I  don't  believe  there's  any  dislocation,"  she  said 
cheerfully,  though  not  too  cheerfully,  for  she  knew 
better  than  to  do  that,  when  any  one  was  suffering.  "  I 
don't  believe  there's  any  dislocation,  and  if  there  isn't, 


FIRE    AND    SWORD.  207 

I'll  soon  relieve  you,  if  you'll  let  me  try."  Eliza  came 
back  with  more  hot  water,  and  again  for  a  patient  half 
hour  the  wringing  of  flannels  and  the  application  of 
them  went  on.  At  the  end  of  that  time,  Missy  began 
to  think  there  was  something  besides  sprain  and  bruise, 
for  the  patient  was  growing  pale,  and  the  pain  was 
manifestly  not  abating.  She  gave  him  some  more 
wine,  and  bathed  his  head,  and  fanned  him,  and 
wished  for  the  doctor.  There  was  no  medicine  in  the 
house  with  which  she  was  familiar.  Her  own  beloved 
weapons  were  now  out  of  reach,  and  she  could  not 
bring  herself  to  give  opium  and  the  horrid  drugs 
in  which  this  benighted  gentleman  still  believed. 
Ignatia,  camomilla,  moschiis  !  Ah,  what  she  might 
have  done  for  him,  if  she  could  have  known  where  to 
lay  her  hand  on  her  tiny  case  of  medicines.  She  gave 
him  more  wine  ;  that  was  the  only  thing  left  for  her  to 
do,  since  he  would  probably  not  submit  to  letting  her 
set  his  arm,  which  she  was  now  convinced  was  broken. 
She  felt  quite  capable  of  doing  it,  or  of  doing  any 
thing  rather  than  sitting  still  and  seeing  him  suffer. 
She  privately  dispatched  Eliza  to  get  bandages,  and  her 
work-basket,  and  to  replenish  the  fire  in  the  range. 

At  last,  at  a  few  minutes  before  two  o'clock,  the 
welcome  sound  of  the  doctor's  gig  driving  to  the  gate, 
met  her  ear.  She  let  him  in,  while  Eliza  sat  beside 
the  patient.  He  looked  surprised  to  see  her,  and 
they  both  thought  involuntarily  of  the  last  time  they 
had  been  together  in  this  house. 

"  You  are  a  good  neighbor,"  he  said,  taking  off  his 
ha.t  and  coat  in  the  hall. 

"  We  have  had  a  good  neighbor  to-night  in  Mr.  An 
drews,"  said  Missy,  with  a  little  stiffness.  "He  has 


208  FIRE    AND     SWORD. 

made  himself  ill  in  our  service,  and  we  feel  as  if  we 
could  not  do  too  much  in  taking  care  of  him." 

"  Certainly,"  said  the  doctor,  searching  for  his  case 
of  instruments  in  his  pocket.  "  You  have  had  a  great 
fire,  I  hear.  How  much  damage  has  been  done  ?" 

"I  do  not  know  at  all.  I  had  to  stay  with  my 
mother,  and  Mr.  Andrews  is  in  too  much  pain  since  he 
came  in,  to  answer  any  questions.  I  am  very  much 
afraid  his  arm  is  broken." 

"Indeed,"  said  the  doctor,  comfortably,  shaking 
down  the  collar  of  his  coat,  which  had  been  somewhat 
disarranged  in  the  taking  off  of  the  superior  garment. 
It  seemed  as  if  he  were  trying  how  long  he  could  be 
about  it. 

Missy  fumed. 

"Now,"  he  said,  following  her  into  the  room.  He 
seated  himself  by  the  patient  in  a  chair  which  Missy  had 
set  for  him  when  she  heard  the  gate  open,  and  asked  him 
many  questions,  and  poked  about  his  arm  and  shoulder 
and  seemed  to  try  to  be  as  long  in  making  up  his  mind 
as  he  had  been  in  getting  ready  to  come  in. 

"  \\rell?"  said  Missy  at  last,  feeling  she  could  not 
bear  it  any  longer. 

Mr.  Andrews'  face  had  expressed  that  he  was  about 
at  the  end  of  his  patience  several  minutes  before. 

It  was  hoping  too  much,  that  he  should  tell  them 
at  once  what  was  the  matter  ;  but  by  and  by  it  was 
allowed  them  to  infer  that  Mr.  Andrews'  arm  was 
broken  in  two  places  ;  that  the  shoulder  was  all  right, 
and  that  the  wrist  was  only  sprained,  and  was  much  the 
better  for  the  treatment  it  had  had.  He  praised  Missy 
indirectly  for  her  promptness,  told  her  Mr.  Andrews 
might  thank  her  for  at  least  one  hand — which  he  could 


FIRE    AND    SWORD.  209 

undoubtedly  have  the  use  of  in  a  few  days.  Mr.  An 
drews'  face  showed  he  wasn't  prepared  for  being 
helpless  for  even  a  few  days.  The  pain,  great  as  it 
was,  could  not  prevent  his  disgust  at  this. 

"  And  how  long  before  my  arm  will  be  fit  to  use  ?" 
he  said  shortly. 

"  Better  get  it  into  the  splints  before  we  decide 
when  we  shall  take  it  out,"  said  the  doctor,  with 
complacence,  taking  out  his  case  of  instruments. 

Pie  enjoyed  his  case  of  instruments,  and  there  was 
so  little  use  for  it  at  Yellowcoats.  It  was  on  his 
tongue  to  say  something  discouraging  about  the 
length  of  the  confinement  probable,  but  Missy  gave 
him  a  warning  look,  and  said  cheerfully,  "  a  broken 
arm  is  nothing  ;  I've  always  thought  it  the  nicest  acci 
dent  that  any  one  could  have.  Besides,  it  is  your  left 
arm.  You  won't  mind  the  sling  at  all,  if  you  do  have 
to  wear  it  for  a  few  days  longer  than  you  might  think 
necessary.  St.  John  broke  his  arm  once  when  he  was  a 
boy,  and  it  was  really  nothing.  We  were  surprised  to 
find  how  soon  it  was  all  well." 

Missy  spoke  as  if  she  knew  all  about  it. 

"Then  you  know  how  to  help  me  with  the  ban 
dages  ?"  the  doctor  said. 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  remember  quite  well." 

By  the  time  that  the  arm  was  set,  and  the  patient 
helped  into  his  room  by  the  doctor  and  Eliza,  Missy 
had  decided  that  Mr.  Andrews  bore  pain  pretty  well 
for  a  man,  and  that  the  doctor  was  even  stupider  than 
she  had  thought.  She  also  arrived  at  the  conclusion 
that  the  whole  situation  was  as  awkward  as  possible, 
when  the  door  closed  upon  the  object  of  her  solicitude, 
and  she  realized  that  she  could  do  him  no  further  good. 


210  MINE    HOST. 

It  was  only  then  that  she  became  aware  that  she  was 
deeply  interested  in  the  case.  To  do  her  justice,  if  it 
had  been  Eliza's  arm  she  would  have  suffered  a  pang  in 
giving  it  up.  She  was  naturally  a  nurse,  and  naturally 
enthusiastic.  She  had  made  up  her  mind  to  disregard 
the  doctor's  orders  totally  and  give  the  patient  homeo 
pathic  treatment,  according  to  her  lights.  But  here  was 
conventionality  coming  in.  She  must  give  him  up,  and 
he  was  no  doubt  to  be  shut  up  in  that  room  for  a  day  or 
two  at  least,  to  be  stupefied  with  narcotics,  and  then 
dosed  with  tonics.  Missy  clenched  her  little  tired 
hands  together.  Why  could  Eliza  go  in  and  take  care 
of  him,  and  she  not  ?  She  could  not  influence  him 
through  Eliza,  or  Melinda,  or  the  waitress.  She  must 
give  up  conventionality  or  homeopathy.  It  was  a 
struggle,  but  conventionality  won. 


CHAPTER   XIIL 


MINE     HOST. 

F  this  she  was  very  glad  the  next  morning  : 
conventionality  is  best  by  daylight.  She 
woke  with  a  feeling  that  it  was  exceedingly 
awkward  to  be  in  Mr.  Andrews'  house,  and 
to  have  no  house  of  her  own  to  go  to.  When  she 
came  down-stairs,  Eliza  was  just  putting  Mr.  Andrews' 
breakfast  on  a  tray.  She  said  he  had  had  no  sleep, 
and  seemed  to  be  uncomfortable.  The  breakfast-tray 
did  not  look  very  inviting,  so  Missy  reconstructed  it, 


N^    JO  ST.  211 

and  sent  it  in,  brightened  with  some  white  grapes  that 
the  gardener  had  just  brought  to  the  door,  and  three 
or  four  soft-looking  roses,  with  the  dew  upon  them. 

"Tell  Mr.  Andrews  I  hope  he  will  let  us  know  if 
there  is  anything  we  can  do  for  him,"  she  said,  half 
ashamed,  as  Eliza  went  up-stairs  with  the  tray. 

By  this  time  Miss  Varian  had  come  down-stairs, 
and  Goneril,  very  tired  and  cross,  twitched  some  chairs 
and  a  footstool  about  for  her ;  and  Anne,  looking 
oddly  out  of  place,  came  in  to  know  if  she  should 
carry  Mrs.  Varian's  breakfast  np  to  her.  It  was  all 
very  strange  and  uncomfortable.  The  servants  had 
evidently  spent  much  of  their  time  in  talking  over  the 
incidents  of  the  fire,  and  Melinda  was  late  with  her 
breakfast.  Missy  couldn't  imagine  where  they  had  all 
slept  ;  but  here  they  all  were — two  cooks  in  the 
kitchen,  two  waitresses  in  the  dining-room,  two  maids 
in  the  parlor,  and  no  breakfast  ready.  Miss  Varian 
felt  very  irritable  ;  the  children  had  waked  her  by  five 
o'clock  with  their  noise,  and  she  could  not  go  to  sleep 
again.  The  absence  of  her  usual  toilet  luxuries  exas 
perated  her,  and  all  the  philosophy  which  she  had  dis 
played  the  night  before  forsook  her.  She  scolded 
everybody,  including  Mr.  Andrews,  who  was  to  blame 
for  having  such  a  hard  bed  in  his  spare  room,  and  the 
cook,  who  was  so  late  in  getting  breakfast  ready. 
Missy  disdained  to  answer  her,  but  she  felt  as  cross,  in 
her  way.  The  children,  who  had  been  sent  out  of 
doors  to  allow  Miss  Varian  to  go  to  sleep  again,  now 
came  bursting  in,  and  made  matters  worse  by  their 
noise.  They  were  full  of  news  about  the  fire,  and,  to 
judge  by  their  smutty  hands  and  aprons,  had  been 
cruising  round  the  forbidden  spot. 


212  MINE    HOST. 

"Jay,  if  you  love  me,"  said  Missy,  putting  her 
hands  to  her  ears,  "  be  quiet  and  don't  talk  any  more 
about  the  fire.  Let  me  eat  my  breakfast,  and  forget 
my  miseries." 

But  Gabrielle  could  not  be  silenced,  though  Jay, 
when  the  hominy  came,  gave  himself  to  that.  She  al 
ways  had  information  to  impart,  and  this  occasion  was 
too  great  to  be  lost.  She  told  Missy  everything  she 
didn't  want  to  hear,  from  the  destruction  of  the  flower 
beds  by  the  crowd,  to  the  remarks  of  the  boys  at  the 
stable,  about  her  father's  broken  arm. 

"  They  said  he  was  a  fool,  to  work  so  hard  for 
nothing ;  they  expected  to  be  paid,  but  he  didn't. 
Then  Peters  said  '  maybe  he  expects  to  be  paid  as  well 
as  you,'  and  then  they  all  laughed.  What  did  they  all 
laugh  for,  Missy,  and  do  you  suppose  my  father  does 
expect  to  be  paid  ?" 

"  I  suppose  you  were  where  you  had  no  business 
to  be,"  said  Missy,  shortly.  "  Now,  if  you  will  eat 
your  breakfast,  and  be  silent,  \ve  shall  thank  you." 

Then  Gabby  retired  into  the  hominy  and  there  was 
a  silence  if  not  a  peace.  It  was  a  dull  morning — 
much  fog,  and  little  life  in  the  air.  Missy  hadn't 
even  looked  out  of  the  window.  She  dreaded  the 
thought  of  what  she  was  to  see  on  the  other  side  of 
the  hedge.  If  it  had  been  possible,  she  would  have 
delayed  the  work  that  lay  before  her  ;  but  she  was 
goaded  on  now  by  the  thought  that  if  she  did  not 
hurry,  they  must  spend  another  night  here,  and  eat 
another  breakfast  to  the  accompaniment  of  Gabby's 
information  and  observation.  It  was  ten  o'clock  be 
fore  she  could  get  away,  leaving  directions  to  the 
servants  to  follow  her. 


MINI:  HOST.  213 

It  was  a  dismal  scene  ;  the  faultless  lawn  trampled 
and  torn  up,  the  vines  torn  from  the  piazza  and  lying 
stretched  and  straggling  on  the  ground.  The  win 
dows  were  curtainless,  the  piazza  steps  broken,  the 
piazza  piled  with  ladders  and  steps  and  buckets  ;  the 
front  door  had  a  black  eye.  There  was  at  this  side  of 
the  house  not  much  evidence  of  the  fire,  but  at  the 
rear  it  was  much  worse.  The  summer  parlor  was 
badly  damaged,  the  sashes  quite  burnt  black,  the  ceiling 
all  defaced.  The  flames  had  reached  the  room  above, 
Missy's  own  room,  and  here  had  been  stayed.  The  win 
dows  were  broken  out,  a  good  deal  of  the  woodwork 
charred,  and  the  walls  much  damaged  with  water. 
These  two  rooms  were  all  that  were  seriously  injured.  It 
was  quite  wonderful  that  the  damage  had  gone  no 
further  ;  there  had  been  no  wind,  and  Mr.  Andrews  had 
been  on  the  spot  ;  if  they  had  not  had  these  two  things 
in  their  favor,  the  house  must  have  gone.  Peters  had 
shown  himself  a  respectable  donkey,  and  none  of  the 
women  but  Goneril  proved  to  have  any  head  in  such 
an  emergency.  Missy  tried  to  be  comforted  by  the 
smallness  of  the  material  injury.  But  the  desolation 
and  disorder  of  the  pretty  rooms  !  In  her  own,  Missy 
fairly  cried.  She  felt  completely  d'epaysee.  A  few 
hundred  dollars  and  a  few  weeks  would  put  it  all  in 
order  again,  but  Missy  was  not  in  a  philosophic  mood. 
She  felt  herself  an  outcast  and  a  wanderer,  and  turning 

*  O 

bitterly  from  the  scorched  spot,  vowed  never  to  love 
anything  again. 

By  this  time  the  clumsy  Peters  and  the  headless 
maids  had  come  up  to  be  set  to  work.  So  turning  the 
keys  on  the  damaged  rooms,  she  followed  them  out 
and  began  to  try  roughly  to  get  the  furniture  back 


214  MINE    HOST. 

into  the  rooms  to  which  it  belonged.  Her  ambition, 
at  present,  was  to  get  her  mother's  and  her  aunt's 
rooms  in  order  to  have  them  return  that  night,  and 
the  kitchen  so  far  reconstructed  that  the  servants 
might  do  their  work.  But  at  night-fall,  the  prospect 
was  so  dismal,  the  hall  so  encumbered  with  unbestowed 
goods,  the  workmen  so  tardy,  the  progress  so  small, 
that  Missy  reluctantly  acknowledged  she  would  be 
cruel  to  her  mother,  if  she  insisted  on  bringing  her 
back  to  such  a  scene  of  desolation.  She  must 
be  contented  to  accept  Mr.  Andrews'  considerate  hos 
pitality,  lie  had  sent  over  Eliza  with  a  message  at 
lunch  time,  in  which  he  took  it  for  granted  that  they 
were  to  stay  there  for  the  present,  and  covered  all  the 
ground  of  an  invitation,  and  was  less  offensive.  It 
was  understood  and  inevitable,  and  so  she  tried  to 
take  it. 

The  rain  came  down  heavily  at  six  o'clock  ;  as  she 
locked  herself  out  of  the  front  door,  and  wrapping  her 
waterproof  around  her,  went  down  the  wet  steps,  and 
out  on  the  soaking  ground,  feeling  tired  and  heartsick, 
she  could  not  but  contrast  the  scene  with  that  of  last 
evening,  when,  under  the  smiling  rosy  sunset,  she 
had  come  down  the  steps  on  her  way  out  to  her  stolen 
row  upon  the  bay.  It  seemed  a  year  ago,  instead  of  a 
day.  Ann  followed  close  behind  her,  with  various 
articles  for  the  comfort  of  her  mother.  At  the  door 
of  the  Andrews'  house  Ann  took  off  her  mistress' 
waterproof  and  overshoes. 

"  I  am  almost  too  tired  to  speak,  Ann,"  she  said.  "  I 
shall  go  up-stairs  and  lie  down,  and  you  may  bring  me 
a  cup  of  tea.  I  don't  want  any  dinner." 

But  once   up-stairs,  Missy  found  she  must  change 


MINE    HOST.  215 

her  plans,  and  forget  her  weariness.  Her  mother  was 
quite  unable  to  go  down  to  dinner  ;  indeed,  was  only 
Availing  for  her  tea,  to  try  to  quiet  herself  with  a  view 
to  getting  a  tolerable  night.  Miss  Varian  had  a  vio 
lent  attack  of  neuralgia;  the  whole  house  had  been  laid 
under  tribute  to  alleviate  her  sufferings.  She  was  to 
have  her  dinner  in  bed,  and  had  ordered  the  house  to 
be  kept  perfectly  quiet  after  she  had  partaken  of  that 
meal-.  Eliza,  the  waitress,  no  less  than  Goneril,  had 
been  actively  running  up  and  down  stairs,  to  take  her 
orders  to  the  kitchen.  Melinda  had  received  directions 
from  Mr.  Andrews  to  cook  an  unusually  elaborate  din 
ner,  to  do  honor  to  the  guests.  Ann  had  confided  this 
to  Mr%  Varian  in  the  afternoon.  She  thought  it  such 
a  pity,  for  she  knew  nobody  would  eat  it.  And  now, 
when  Missv  told  her  mother,  as  she  took  off  her  hat, 
that  she  was  going  to  lie  down  and  have  a  cup  of  tea, 
Mrs.  Varian  made  an  exclamation  of  regret. 

"  The  meals  that  have  gone  up  and  down  stairs  to 
day  in  this  house  !"  she  said.  "  Mr.  Andrews,  poor 
man,  doesn't  eat  much,  but  it  has  to  be  carried  to  him. 
And  your  aunt  has  had  her  lunch  in  many  varieties, 
and  now  her  dinner.  And  I,  alas  !  And  now,  if  you 
can't  go  down,  my  dear,  and  the  fine  dinner  has  to  go 
off  the  table  without  any  one  even  to  look  at  it,  it  will 
be  unfortunate.  You  don't  think  you  could  go  down 
just  for  the  form  of  it,  and  try  to  eat  something  ? 
Eliza  has  had  to  get  out  some  of  the  silver  that  has 
been  packed  away,  and  I  have  heard  much  consultation 
outside  about  table-cloths.  It  does  seem  very  awkward. 
Three  aruests.  and  all  demanding  to  be  served  with  din- 

O  '  -^J 

ner  in  their  own  rooms.     Poor  Missy,  it  always  comes 


216  MINE    HOST. 

on  you.  There  now,  don't  mind  a  word  of  what  I've 
said,  but  stay  here  and  rest,  I  know  you  need  it." 

For  Missy  had  thrown  herself  down  into  a  chair, 
and  looked  just  ready  to  cry.  She  was  quite  over 
strained,  and  if  ever  any  woman  needed  a  cup  of  tea 
and  the  luxury  of  being  let  alone,  that  woman  was 
Missy. 

"  Of  course  I  can  go  down,"  said  Missy,  with 
something  between  sobbing  and  spitting  fire.  "lean 
do  anything  in  the  world — but  hold  my  tongue,"  she 
added,  as  she  saw  her  mother  look  distressed.  "  Oh, 
of  course  I'll  go  down,  I  don't  really  mind  it.  I  shan't 
have  even  to  smooth  my  hair.  For  as  there  will  be  no 
critics  but  the  children  and  the  waitress,  I  may  be  saved 
that  effort.  I  suppose  I  must  praise  the  dinner  liberally, 
to  make  Melinda  happy.  Oh,  I  am  so  tired.  My 
hands  feel  as  if  they  were  full  of  splinters  and  nails, 
and  I  can't  go  across  the  room  to  wash  them.  I  won 
der  if  the  waitress  would  care  if  I  didn't  wasli  them. 
I'm  sure  I  shouldn't.  By  the  way,  I  must  ring  for  Ann 
and  tell  her  I  am  going  down  to  dinner,  or  the  best 
table-cloth  will  be  taken  off  before  I  see  it." 

Ann  took  down  the  message  in  time  to  stay  the 
spoliation  of  the  table,  and  when  dinner  was  served, 
came  up  to  say  so  to  her  mistress.  She  was  too  tired  to 
do  more  than  wash  her  hands  ;  she  did  not  even  look  in 
the  glass.  She  felt  hysterical  as  well  as  weary,  and  said 
to  herself,  if  Gabrielle  says  anything  hateful,  I  shall 
certainly  make  a  scene.  The  lights  hurt  her  eyes  as  she 
went  into  the  dining-room.  Jay  laid  hold  of  her  hand, 
and  kissed  it  with  fervor,  and  then  pulled  a  bow  off 
the  side  of  her  dress,  to  make  up  for  the  caress. 

"So   we  are  to  have  dinner  together,  are  we,  you 


MINE    HOST.  217 

and    I  and    Gabby,"  she  said,  sinking  into  her  chair, 
and  pointing  Jay  to  his. 

"  And  papa,"  said  Gabby,  with  a  keenly  interested 
look.  "  Didn't  you  know  he  was  coming  down  to 
dinner  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Missy,  feeling  herself  grow  red.  "  I 
thought  he  wasn't  well  enough." 

At  this  moment,  the  door  opened,  and  Mr.  An 
drews  came  in. 

"  I  did  not  think  you  were  able  to  come  down," 
Missy  said,  rather  awkwardly,  rising.  "You  must 
excuse  me — for — for  taking  my  seat  before  you 
came." 

"  It  was  so,  tiresome  staying  up  stairs,"  said  Mr. 
Andrews  simply,  and  they  took  their  places  silently. 

The  two  children's  seats  had  been  placed  opposite 
to  Missy.  But  Jay  refused  to  submit  to  this  arrange 
ment,  and  kicked  against  the  table  legs  and  cried  till 
he  was  carried  around  to  sit  by  Missy.  He  certainly 
behaved  very  badly,  and  made  them  all  uncomfor 
table.  Then,  when  they  had  got  partly  over  this,  and 
were  trying  to  talk  a  little,  Gabby  took  occasion  to 
say,  when  there  was  a  pause  in  the  rather  forced  con 
versation,  critically  looking  across  at  Missy  : 

"  If  you  had  known  papa  was  corning  down,  would 
you  have  brushed  your  hair,  do  you  think,  Missy  ?" 

The  waitress,  Missy  was  sure,  suppressed  a  sudden 
giggle.  Missy  was  so  angry,  and  so  agitated,  she  grew 
pale  instead  of  red. 

"  I  am  sure  I  should,"  she  said,  deliberately,  look 
ing  at  her.  "  And  perhaps,  have  put  another  cravat 
on,  for  this  one,  I  am  afraid,  is  rather  dusty." 

"  Why  didn't  yon  put  it  on  any  way,"  said  Jay. 
10 


218  MINE    HOST. 

"  Why,  because  little  children  are  not  supposed  to 
know  or  care  ;  but  for  grown  people,  we  have  to  try 
to  be  polite." 

These  brave  words  over,  Missy  felt  she  had  done 
all  that  was  possible  in  self-defense,  and  began  to 
feel  as  if  she  should  cry  at  the  next  assault.  Poor  Mr. 
Andrews  looked  bitterly  annoyed.  He  was  so  pale 
and  ill-looking,  and  had  made  such  an  effort  to  come 
down  and  be  hospitable,  that  Missy's  heart  was 
softened.  She  resolved  to  make  it  easy  for  him,  so 
she  began  to  talk  about  the  condition  of  the  house  and 
to  ask  questions  and  get  advice.  But  the  poor  man 
was  too  ill,  and  too  straightforward  to  talk  about  any 
thing  he  wasn't  thinking  about.  The  presence  of 
Gabrielle  made  him  nervous  as  a  woman  ;  every  time 
she  opened  her  inouth,  if  only  to  ask  for  a  glass  of 
water,  he  was  sure  she  was  going  to  say  something 
terrible.  Such  a  dinner.  Melinda's  nice  dishes  went 
away  almost  untouched,  almost  unseen.  At  last 
Gabrielle,  reassured  by  the  subjection  in  which  she 
found  her  elders,  ventured  upon  that  which  lay 
nearest  her  heart,  namely,  the  topic  of  discussion  in 
the  stable  that  morning. 

"  Papa,"  she  said,  in  a  very  insinuating  voice,  and 
with  a  glance  around,  "  do  you  expect  to  be  paid 
for—" 

But  Missy  was  too  quick  for  her.  She  started  to 
her  feet,  the  color  flaming  to  her  face. 

"  Gabrielle,  I  forbid  you  to  speak  another  word 
while  I  am  in  the  room.  Mr.  Andrews,  you  must  ex 
cuse  me — I  am  very  sorry  to  make  you  so  uncomfortable, 
but  I  cannot — stand  it — any  longer,"  and  with  an 
hysterical  choke  she  sprang  to  the  door. 


MINE    HOST.  219 

When  she  was  gone,  I  wouldn't  have  been  in 
Gabby's  place  for  a  good  deal.  Fortunately  the 
waitress  was  out  of  the  room  when  the  fracas  occurred, 
and  when  she  came  back,  she  was  at  liberty  to  sup 
pose  that  the  furious  punishment  bestowed  upon 
Gabrielle  was  in  consequence  of  an  overturned  glass 
of  wine  which  was  bedewing  the  best  table-cloth. 
Some  gentlemen  are  so  particular  about  their  table 
linen.  She  had  not  seen  this  side  of  Mr.  Andrews' 
character  before,  but  then,  to  be  sure,  they  had  never 
used  the  best  linen  since  she  had  been  in  the  family. 

When  Missy,  panting  and  hysterical,  reached  the 
top  of  the  stairs,  she  didn't  know  exactly  what  to  do. 
She  knew  very  well  if  she  took  refuge  in  her  mother's 
room  (which  was  her  own,  too),  she  destroyed  all 
chance  of  sleep  for  her  mother  that  night.  She 
couldn't  go  into  the  nursery,  where  Gabby  would 
probably  be  sent  for  punishment.  She,  couldn't  seek 
the  sweet  shelter  of  Miss  Harriet  Varian's  sympathy, 
and  it  wasn't  dignified  to  sit  on  the  stairs.  What  was 
she  to  do  ?  Just  at  this  moment,  Goneril  came  softly 
out  of  her  mistress'  room. 

"Is  Miss  Varian  asleep?"  asked  Missy,  in  a  low 
tone. 

"  Heaven  be  praised,  SHE  is  !"  returned  Goneril, 
with  great  fervor. 

"  Then  I  will  go  and  sit  by  her  till  you  get  your 
dinner,"  she  said,  going  past  her  into  the  room.  Here 
was  refuge  and  darkness,  and  she  sat  down  in  an  easy- 
chair  near  the  door.  How  little  consolation  there  was 
in  being  quiet,  though,  and  thinking.  She  was  so  en 
raged — so  humiliated.  She  had  fought  clear  of  the 
embarrassment  and  disgrace  of  last  autumn,  and  had 


220  MINE    HOST. 

flattered  herself  she  had  conquered  both  herself  and 
gossip  ;  and  now  it  was  all  to  be  done  over  again. 
She  had  no  heart  to  begin  again.  She  was  going 
away.  She  would  go  away.  There  was  no  reason 
she  should  not  have  her  way,  sometimes.  There  was 
a  good  excuse  for  a  summer's  absence.  They  would 
leave  the  carpenters  and  painters  in  the  house — she 
didn't  care  for  the  house  now,  and  what  they  did  to  it 
— and  they  would  go  to  the  mountains  till  she  had  got 
over  this  miserable  sensitiveness,  and  till  the  Andrews' 
had  got  tired  of  Yellowcoats.  Oh,  that  that  might  be 
soon  !  She  never  wanted  to  see  one  of  the  name 
again,  not  even  Jay.  (She  had  had  these  reflections 
before,  and  had  thought  better  of  them,  at  least  as 
concerned  Jay.)  By  and  by,  while  she  was  still 
solacing  herself  with  plans  for  flight,  she  heard  the 
children  come  up-stairs,  Jay  fretting,  as  if  he  felt  the 
discomfort  in  the  air.  Gabrielle  was  very  silent. 
Eliza  was  rather  hurried  ;  she  was  human,  though  a 
good  nurse,  and  there  was  a  large  and  cheerful  circle 
sitting  down  around  the  kitchen  table  to  an  unusually 
good  dinner.  It  was  rather  hard  lines  to  be  putting 
the  children  to  bed,  when  they  ought  to  have  stayed 
up,  as  they  always  did,  until  she  had  had  her  dinner. 
Now  everything  seemed  out  of  joint  for  some  reason, 
and  the  children  as  troublesome  as  possible.  Eliza, 
excellent  servant  though  she  was,  was  but  a  servant, 
and  to  sit  pat-patting  Jay,  while  the  festive  circle 
down-stairs  were  getting  through  the  choicest  bits  of 
pastry  and  of  gossip,  required  more  patience  than  she 
had.  The  children  were  hustled  into  their  night- 
clothes  rather  hastily.  Gabrielle,  sulky  and  white, 
offered  only  slight  petulant  resistance,  but  Jay  cried 


MINE    HOST.  221 

and  grew  worse-tempered  every  minute.  At  last 
Eliza  got  them  both  into  bed  and  turned  down  the 
lamp. 

"  Now  go  to  sleep,  like  a  good  boy,"  she  said,  tuck 
ing  in  the  clothes  of  Jay's  crib  ;  but  there  was  restless 
ness  in  her  very  tone,  and  though  she  sat  down,  she 
did  not  convey  the  idea  of  permanence,  and  Jay  grew 
wider  awake  every  moment,  watching  lest  she  should 
go  away.  At  length,  starting  up  impatiently,  she 
cried  : 

"There's  reason  in  all  things.  You're  big  enough 
to  go  to  sleep  by  yourself.  I  must  have  my  dinner." 

And  without  a  look  behind,  she  hurried  from  the 
room.  This  had  never  happened  before.  She  had 
always  occupied  herself  in  putting  away  the  children's 
clothes,  and  in  moving  softly  about  the  room,  and 
singing  in  a  low  voice  ;  and  so  Jay,  without  being  ab 
solutely  coddled,  had  always  fallen  asleep  with  a  sense 
of  protection  and  companionship.  But  to-night  every 
thing  was  going  wrong.  Here  was  papa  in  such  an 
awful  way,  and  Missy  running  away  from  the  table 
crying,  and  Gabby  scared  to  death  and  punished — and 
now  his  .purse  getting  cross,  and  going  down  and  leav 
ing  him  all  alone  in  the  dark.  There  had  been  vague 
and  terrible  stories  of  what  came  in  the  dark,  during 
the  reign  of  Alphonsine  and  Bridget,  which  had  not 
been  quite  obliterated. 

Jay  lay  mute  with  amazement  for  a  moment  ;  and 
then,  sitting  up  in  bed,  and  looking  into  the  dimness 
surrounding  him,  began  to  cry  piteously,  and  to  call 
upon  Eliza  to  corne  back.  But  Eliza  was  out  of  reach 
of  his  cries  now,  and  Gabby,  stubborn  and  wicked, 


222  MINE    HOST. 

would  not  open  her  lips.  He  cried  and  sobbed  till  his 
throat  felt  sore  and  his  head  burning. 

"  Missy,  Missy  !    I  want  you,  Missy  !" 

Missy  had  listened,  with  vexation  at  Eliza,  but 
with  no  intention  of  taking  up  her  duties,  till  that 
plaintive  cry  smote  her  heart  and  melted  it.  The  poor 
little  lonely  child,  with  no  love  but  the  unsteady  love 
of  hirelings  !  She  started  up  and  stole  into  the  nurs 
ery.  The  cry  with  which  Jay  flung  himself  into  her 
arms  made  him  dearer  to  her  than  ever  before.  He 
clung  to  her,  all  trembling  and  beating,  his  wet  little 
face  buried  in  her  neck. 

"You  won't  go  away  and  leave  me,  you  won't, 
promise  me,  Missy,  you  won't  go." 

"  No,  Jay,  my  own  little  man,  I  won't.  Lie  down  ;  I 
promise  you,  I'll  stay." 

Every  one  else  had  failed  him,  but  he  still  believed 
in  Missy.  So  he  was  pacified  and  reassured,  and  after 
awhile  lay  down,  holding  both  her  hands.  She  let 
down  the  side  of  his  crib,  and  sitting  beside  him,  laid 
her  head  on  his  pillow  ;  he  put  one  hand  on  her  throat, 
and  held  the  other  tight  in  one  of  hers,  and  so,  after 
awhile,  he  fell  asleep.  But  a  ground-swell  of  sobs 
still  heaved  his  breast  after  snch  a  heavy  storm.  Missy 
held  the  little  warm  hand  tight,  and  kissed  him  in  his 
sleep.  She  had  promised  not  to  go,  and  she  dared 
not  move  his  hand  from  her  neck,  nor  stir  her  head 
from  the  pillow  for  fear  of  waking  him. 

The  room  was  stiil  and  dim,  and  she  was  very  tired; 
by  and  by  the  troubles  of  the  day  melted  into  dreams, 
and  she  slept.  How  long,  she  could  not  tell.  Alight 
gleaming  in  her  face  aroused  her  ;  she  started  up  in 
sudden  consternation,  for  Mr.  Andrews  stood  looking 


MINE    HOST.  223 

at  her,  in,  it  mast  be  said,  equal  consternation.  He 
had  moved  the  screen  from  the  nursery  lamp,  and  com 
ing  up  to  the  bed  to  look  at  his  boy,  had  seen  the  not 
unpretty,  but  very  unexpected  picture  of  the  two 
sleeping  in  this  close  embrace. 

Missy's  first  feeling  was  one  of  anger  ;  but  surely 
Mr.  Andrews  had  a  right  in  his  own  nursery,  and,  as 
usual,  she  was  in  the  wrong — she  was  where  she  had 
no  business  to  be  ;  her  bitter  vexation  showed  itself  on 
her  face. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said,  stepping  back,  "  I — I 
didn't  know  you  were  here." 

"  Jay  cried  so,  I  came  in  to  pacify  him,"  she  said, 
"  and  he  would  not  let  me  go." 

"  You  are  very  kind  to  him,"  said  the  father  earn 
estly. 

"  Not  particularly,"  she  returned,  fastening  up  the 
side  of  the  crib,  and  laying  him  softly  further  over  on 
his  pillow.  "  One  doesn't  like  to  see  a  child  imposed 
upon,  and  Eliza  was  very  wrong  to  leave  him." 

"  Miss  Rothermel,"  said  Mr.  Andrews,  still  earn 
estly,  and  Miss  Rothermel  prepared  herself  for  some 
thing  she  did  not  want  to  hear,  "  I  have  no  words  to 
express  to  you  the  annoyance  that  I  feel  about  Ga- 
brielle." 

Missy  waved  her  hand  impatiently. 

"  But  I  have  words  to  express  a  resolution  that  I 
have  formed  this  evening,  and  that  is,  that  it  shall  be 
the  last  time  that  you  shall  suffer  from  her.  I  shall 
send  her  away  to  boarding-school  as  soon  as  I  can 
make  the  necessary  arrangements  ;  and  that  I  hope  will 
be  within  a  week,  at  furthest." 

It  was  now  Missy's  turn  to  be  in  earnest. 


224  MINE    HOST. 

"  I  hope  you  won't  do  anything  of  the  kind,  Mr. 
Andrews,  on  my  account  at  least.  I  can  only  as 
sure  you,  it  would  be  far  more  annoying  than  anything 
she  has  ever  done.  I  should  never  forgive  myself  for 
having  caused  yon  to  do  what  I  aui  quite  sure  would  be 
the  worst  thing  for  her.  She  is  very  well  situated  now. 
You  have  good  servants,  she  has  the  free  country  life 
she  needs,  and  no  bad  companions.  If  she  can't  im 
prove  now,  I'm  afraid  she  never  will." 

"I'm  afraid  she  never  will,  wherever  she  may  be," 
answered  Mr.  Andrews,  with  almost  a  groan.  "  I 
could  tell  you  something  of  her,  if — if — ' 

"I  ana  sure  of  one  thing,"  rushed  on  Missy,  not 
heeding  what  she  might  have  heard  if  she  had  listened  ; 
"  I  am  sure  of  one  thing,  I  should  never  have  a  mo 
ment's  peace,  if  I  felt  I  had  been  in  any  way  the  cause 
of  sending  from  her  home  such  a  desolate  little  child. 
I  cannot  forget  that  I  had  a  friendship  for  her  mother, 
and  I  should  be  always  followed  by  the  thought  of  her 
reproach." 

Mr.  Andrews'  face  changed  ;  he  bent  his  head 
slightly.  The  change  was  not  lost  on  Missy. 

"  Besides  that  feeling,"  she  said,  with  a  touch  of 
bitterness,  "  which,  I  have  no  doubt,  you  look  upon  as 
a  weak  piece  of  sentiment,  I  don't  see  what  difference 
her  going  or  staying  can  make  to  me.  It  would  be  a 
pity  to  do  her  an  injury  which  would  do  no  one  any 
good.  I  shall  not  necessarily  see  her  half-a-dozen 
times,  before  we  go  away,  which,  I  hope,  we  shall  do 
for  the  summer,  very  shortly.  And  when  we  come 
back  Jay  will  have  forgotten  me,  or  you  will  all,  per 
haps,  have  left  the  place.  It  is  really  too  much  said 
already  on  a  subject  which  is  very  insignificant,  though 


MINE    HOST.  225 

it  has  proved  sufficiently  disagreeable."  And  she 
moved  as  if  to  go  away. 

"  I  quite  agree  with  you  that  it  has  been  very  dis 
agreeable  ;  but  I  don't  entirely  see  that  what  you  have 
said  alters  my  duty  in  the  .matter.  I  think  she  has 
deserved  to  be  sent  away  ;  I  am  not  sure  that  the  dis 
cipline  of  a  school  would  not  be  the  best  thing  for  her. 
I  am  quite  sure  that  it  is  not  my  duty  to  destroy  my 
own  peace,  or  deprive  my  little  boy  of  friends  or  kind 
ness,  by  keeping  her  at  home." 

"Not  your  duty,  Mr.  Andrews!"  cried  Missy. 
"  Well,  of  course  we  look  at  things  from  such  different 
points,  it's  no  use  discussing — 

"  We  will  waive  the  discussion  of  my  duty,"  said 
Mr.  Andrews,  not  urbanely  ;  "  but  I  should  be  very 
glad  to  know  why  you  think  it  would  hurt  Gabrielle 
to  send  her  to  a  good  school  ?" 

Like  all  home-bred  girls,  she  had  a  great  horror  of 
boarding-schools,  and  with  vivacity  gave  a  dozen  rea 
sons  for  her  horror,  winding  up  with- — "I  believe  it 
would  make  her  a  hundred  times  more  deceitful  than 
she  is  now.  It  would  establish  her  thirst  for  intrigue  ; 
it  would  estrange  her  from  you  ;  it  would  deprive  her 
of  the  little  healthy  love  that  she  has  for  out-door  life 
and  innocent  amusement.  If  you  want  to  ruin  Gabri 
elle,  Mr.  Andrews,  pray  send  her  to  a  boarding- 
school  !" 

"I  don't  want  to  ruin  Gabrielle, but  I  want  to  have 
a  little  peace  myself,  and  to  let  my  neighbors  have 
some,  too." 

"  Your  neighbors'  peace  needn't  be  considered, 
after — after  we  go  away  from  the  house  ;  and  I  am 
sure  you  have  frightened  her  enough  to-night  to  make 
10* 


226  MINE    HOST. 

her  behave  better  while  we  are  obliged  to  stay  with 
you." 

As  soon  as  the  words  were  out,  Missy  shivered  at 
their  sound.  She  did  not  mean  to  be  so  rude. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,". she  said,  not  with  successful 
penitence  ;  "  but  you  know  we  did  not  impose  our 
selves  upon  you  from  choice." 

"  I  know  you  would*  not  have  come  if  you  could 
have  helped  it,  certainly.  I  am  not  to  blame  for  that, 
however." 

"  Well,  I'm  sure  I  didn't  mean  to  blame  any  one. 
You  must  excuse  me  ;  I  am  very  tired  to-night.  Only 
let  Gabrielle's  matter  be  considered  settled,  won't  you  ? 
I  shall  thank  you  very  much,  if  you  will  promise  me 
she  shan't  be  sent  away." 

The  father  glanced  at  the  small  white  bed,  where 
Gabrielle  lay  motionless,  with  her  eyes  shut  and  her 
face  turned  from  them,  presumably  asleep. 

"I  won't  take  any  step  about  sending  her  away, 
if  you  feel  so  about  it — for  a  little  while,  at  least." 

"Very  well ;  thank  you  !  Then  it  is  settled.  Good 
night."  And  Missy  went  away,  not  exactly,  it  must 
be  owned,  as  if  she  had  received  a  favor,  but  as  if 
hardly- wrung  justice  had  been  obtained  for  Gabrielle 
and  Gabraelle's  dead  mother*  That,  at  least,  was  how 
she  felt — and  Mr.  Andrews  wasn't  altogether  stupid. 
He  sighed  as  he  bent  over  Jay's  crib,  and  smoothed 
the  hair  back  on  his  pillow,  screening  the  light  from 
his  eyes,  and  turning  down  the  lamp  ;  but  he  did  not 
go  near  the  bed  of  the  offending  Gabrielle,  and  left 
the  room  without  another  glance  in  her  direction. 


YELLOW  COATS     CALLS    TO    INQUIRE.      227 

CHAPTER  XIV. 
YELLOWCOATS  CALLS  TO  INQUIRE. 

HE  next  morning,  Missy  managed  to  get 
away  without  encountering  any  one  more 
formidable  than  Jay  and  the  servants. 
Mr.  Andrews  probably  made  an  intention 
ally  late  breakfast,  and  Gabrielle  was  more  than  willing 
to  keep  out  of  sight.  Matters  at  the  house  she  found  in 
worse  confusion  than  ever.  The  only  plumber  in  the 
village  was  more  eminent  for  good-nature  than  for 
skill.  He  doctored  furnaces  and  ranges,  cooking 
stoves  and  "  air-tights,"  but  it  must  be  said  he  was 
more  successful  with  the  latter.  Water-backs, 
and  traps,  and  reservoirs  had  grown  up  since  he 
learned  his  trade,  but,  like  a  good-natured  creature,  he 
put  his  hand  to  whatever  was  asked  of  him,  and  some 
times  succeeded  in  patching  up  leaks,  and  sometimes 
didn't.  Pie  was  the  worst  berated  man  in  Yellow- 
coats,  but  in  the  greatest  demand.  No  one's  wrath 
lasted  out  the  first  glance  of  his  good-humored  face. 
He  never  thought  of  keeping  his  word  ;  indeed,  it 
would  have  needed  a  great  deal  of  principle  to  do  it. 
The  one  that  was  first,  got  him,  whether  prince  or 
peasant,  and  generally  found  it  necessary  to  mount 
guard  over  him  till  the  job  was  finished.  He  was 
wiping  to  work  all  day,  and  all  night,  irrespective  of 
meals  or  sleep.  Such  good-nature  could  not  fail  to  be 
rewarded,  and  so  every  one  "  put  up  "  with  him,  and 
he  was  not  supplanted. 


228       YELLOW  GO  ATS     CALLS     TO    INQUIRE. 

His  yesterday's  work  at  the  Yarians',  however,  had 
not  been  a  success.  He  had  left  the  range  in  a  lament 
able  condition;  something  very  distressing  was  the  mat 
ter  with  the  water-back,  and  the  tire  could  not  be  made. 
The  house-cleaners  were  all  at  a  loss  for  hot  water  ; 
trusting  in  his  promise  to  be  on  hand  the  first  thing 
in  the  morning,  they  had  all  waited  for  him,  without 
sending  in  to  Miss  Rothennel.  Upon  inquiry,  it  was 
found  that  a  magnate  in  the  horse-and-cow  business, 
some  miles  distant,  had  come  to  grief  in  the  matter  of 
his  tin  roof,  and  had  captured  Mike  at  an  early  hour, 
and  was  probably  even  now  mounting  guard  over  him, 
and  it  was  believed  that  no  threats  or  entreaties  would 
induce  him  to  give  him  up  till  the  roof  was  water-tight. 
As  it  was  a  very  bad  roof,  and  had  been  in  Mike's  hands 
for  years,  it  seemed  probable  that  nothing  short  of  a 
day  or  two  would  answer  for  its  repair.  Still,  several 
hours  of  Peters'  time  was  taken  up  in  going  over  to 
appeal  to  the  sense  of  honor  of  the  horse-and-cow  man. 
In  the  meanwhile,  it  was  deplorable  to  see  what  a 
motive  power  hot  water  was,  and  ho\v  difficult  it  was 
to  get  it,  when  once  one  has  come  to  depend  upon  a 
boiler.  Yery  little  could  be  done  except  in  the  small 
matter  of  putting  drawers  and  closets  in  order.  The 
women  sat  about  the  kitchen  and  berated  Mike,  un 
able  even  to  get  a  bit  of  dinner  cooked. 

At  three  o'clock,  Peters  returned  to  say  that 
there  was  no  hope.  The  horse-and-cow  man  had 
taken  the  ladder  away  from  the  roof,  and  declared 
Mike  shouldn't  come  down  till  the  leaks  were  stopped, 
if  it  took  him  till  November.  Of  course'  the  house 
could  not  be  habitable  till  the  range  was  in  order. 
Missy  with  a  groan  acknowledged  her  fate,  and  de- 


TELLOWCOATS     CALLS     TO    INQUIRE.      229 

cided  it  was  meant  by  destiny,  that  she  should  stay  at 
Mr.  Andrews'  till  everybody  in  the  village  was 
saturated  with  the  intelligence. 

She  had  been  away  from  her  mother  all  day,  and 
Ann  had  reported  her  as  was  not  feeling  quite  so  well, 
so  at  half  past  three  o'clock,  she  had  turned  her  back 
upon  the  desolation,  and  leaving  the  servants  to  do 
what  little  they  could  or  would,  went  back  to  sit  with 
her  mother  for  the  rest  of  the  afternoon,  which  had 
turned  out  tine  and  sunny. 

Mrs.  Varian  was  suffering  quietly,  as  usual,  but 
was  very  glad  to  have  her  daughter  for  a  little  while. 
The  room  was  quiet  and  cool,  and  in  an  easy  chair  by 
the  window,  Missy  found  a  little  rest.  She  read  aloud 
to  her  mother  for  awhile  ;  but  there  soon  began  to  be 
distractions. 

"  Mamma,  here  are  the  Wellses  going  in  at  our 
gate.  I  hope  they'll  enjoy  the  sight  of  the  battered 
steps  and  the  trampled  lawn." 

"  It  is  but  civil  of  them  to  come  and  leave  a  card, 
at  all  events." 

"  Ah,  and  here  goes  somebody  else.  Who  is  it, 
with  such  a  pretty  pony  phaeton,  and  a  puny  little 
footman,  and  a  pug  dog  ?  It  must  be  the  Oldhams. 
I  didn't  know  they  had  come  up.  Well,  I  hope  Ann 
has  on  a  respectable  cap,  and  that  the  bell  wires  are 
not  broken,  as  it  seems  probable  all  Yellovvcoats  will 
call  to  inquire  for  us  to-day." 

"  I  am  sure  it  is  very  kind  of  Yellowcoats.  Why 
do  you  speak  so,  Missy  ?  You  surely  can't  resent  it." 

Missy  bit  her  lips  ;  she  had  a  resentment  that  she 
had  never  let  her  mother  share.  Yes,  she  did  resent 
it.  It  was  bitter  to  her  to  know  that  they  were  all 


230       TELLOWCOATS     CALLS     TO    INQUIRE. 

coming,  and  that  every  one  would  know  where  they 
had  found  asylum,  and  that  all  the  old  story  of  last 
September  would  be  revived.  She  was  quite  correct 
in  thinking  that  all  Yellowcoats  was  on  its  way  there 
that  afternoon.  Ann  must  have  had  a  lively  time 
answering  the  bell  and  the  questions. 

It  was  now  the  third  day  since  the  fire.  The  second 
day  had  been  a  stormy  one,  and  the  sunshine  seemed 
to  have  come  on  purpose  to  disseminate  the  gossip. 
Missy,  from  behind  the  blinds,  watched  the  carriages 
drive  in.  There  were  Oldhams,  country  Oldhams  and 
city  Oldhams,  a  family  far  reaching  and  intricately 
entwined  in  Yellowcoats'  connections.  It  was  not 
safe  to  say  anything  anti-Oldham  to  any  one  in  Yel 
lowcoats,  for  they  were  related  to  everybody,  gentle 
and  simple,  in  the  place.  There  came  the  Roncevalles, 
who  had  two  men  on  the  box,  and  were  debonair  and 
rich  and  easy-going.  There  were  the  Sombreros,  in  a 
heavy,  not  recent  carriage,  driven  by  a  man  who  did 
not  even  hold  himself  straight,  and  who  couldn't  have 
been  dragooned  into  a  livery.  But  the  inmates  of  the 
carriage  held  themselves  straight,  and  other  people 
had  to  walk  straight  before  them.  If  the  object  of 
mankind  is  to  secure  the  respect  of  its  fellows,  they 
had  attained  that  object.  People  of  manifold  more 
pretension  quailed  before  their  silent  disapprobation. 
They  "  rode  their  sure  and  even  trot,  while  now  the 
•world  rode  by,  now  lagged  behind.1'  Missy  felt  a 
sharper  pang  of  wonder  what  the  Sombreros  had 
heard  about  her,  than  what  the  people  with  the  two 
men  on  the  box,  or  the  black  ponies  and  the  pug  dog 
had  heard  ;  she  felt  that  the  Sombreros  would  never 
change  their  minds,  and  minds  that  don't  change  are 


YELLOW  CO  ATS     CALLS     TO    INQUIRE.       231 

to  be  held  in  awe.  She  saw  them  drive  away  with  a 
heavier  sense  of  apprehension  than  she  had  felt  before. 
But  they  did  not  turn  and  look  towards  the  Andrews' 
cottage,  as  the  others  did.  Missy  felt  sure  the  two 
men  on  the  box  of  the  Roncevalles'  carriage  nudged 
each  other  ;  the  two  ladies  in  the  carriage  certainly 
did  turn  and  look  that  way  ;  very  gently  and  deco 
rously,  but  still  they  turned. 

By  and  by  a  carriage  coming  out  met  a  carriage 
driving  in,  directly  before  the  Andrews'  house.  They 
stopped.  The  ladies  bent  eagerly  forward  and  talked 
in  low  tones  ;  more  than  one  glance  flashed  towards 
the  closed  blinds  of  the  widower's  house.  Missy's 
cheeks  were  scarlet  and  her  breath  came  quick  ;  but 
she  was  fascinated  and  could  not  look  away.  It  was 
gentle  Mrs.  Olor  and  her  pretty  young  daughters — who 
could  dread  anything  from  them?  Stirring  Mrs.  Eve 
was  just  giving  them  the  information  that  she  had  re 
ceived  from  the  waitress  at  the  Varians'  door.  She  was 
the  kindest  and  busiest  person  in  Yellowcoats,  but  she 
had  a  sense  of  humor,  and  she  also  was  very  particular 
about  her  own  daughters,  one  of  whom  was  with  her 
in  the  carriage.  Who  could  doubt  what  view  she  took 
of  Miss  Rothermel's  aspirations  ?  Missy  watched 
breathlessly  the  faces  ;  the  mammas  alone  talked,  the 
daughters  listened,  with  smiles  and  rather  pursed-up 
mouths.  Superior  the  whole  party  seemed  to  feel 
themselves,  as  people  always  seem  to  feel  when  they 
have  a  little  story  against  their  neighbors,  not  reflect 
ing  that  their  own  turn  may  come  next.  Missy  had 
felt  superior  for  twenty-seven  years,  though  she 
hadn't  talked  more  gossip  than  most  other  well- 
disposed  and  well-bred  persons.  Still,  she  had  felt 


232       YELLOWCOATS     CALLS     TO    INQUIRE. 

superior,  and  it  was  horrid  to  be  made  to  feel  inferior, 
and  she  bit  her  lips,  and  angry  tears  came  up  into  her 
eyes.  Her  mother  lay  watching  her  silently  on  the  bed. 

"  Well,  Sister  Anne,  Sister  Anne,  do  you  see  any 
body  coining  ?"  she  said  at  last,  gently. 

Missy  forced  herself  to  speak  indifferently,  "  Only 
the  Olors  and  the  Eves.  They  have  met  just  outside 
the  gate,  and  are  mincing  us  quite  fine,  I  should  judge 
from  their  animated  looks." 

"  Well,  I  hope  they  haven't  anything  worse  to  say  of 
us  than  that  we've  had  a  fire,  and  that  the  place  looks 
sadly  out  of  trim." 

"Mamma,"  said  Missy  abruptly,  as  with  wreathed 
smiles  the  friends  parted  and  the  carriages  drove  away, 
"  what  do  you  say  to  a  journey  this  summer  ?  I'm 
sadly  cut  up  about  this  fire.  I  never  shall  have  the 
heart  to  get  things  in  order  before  autumn  ;  I'm  tired 
of  Yellowcoats  for  the  first  time  in  my  life,  and — I 
want  to  go  away." 

"  Go  away,  Missy  !  How  could  we  do  that  ?  I  fear 
I  am  not  strong  enough  ;  and  your  Aunt  Harriet — 
you  know  we  resolved  two  years  ago,  we'd  never  try  it 
again.  She  is  so  hard  to  please,  and  you  remember 
what  a  trial  we  found  the  whole  three  months." 

"It  would  be  less  of  a  trial  than  staying  here.  I, 
for  one,  would  be  glad  to  risk  it.  And  as  to  you,  I 
sometimes  feel  sure  you  need  a  change  more  than  any 
thing." 

Mrs.  Varian  shook  her  head.  "I  need  rest  more 
than  anything." 

"  Invalids  always  feel  that,  and  yet  see  what  bene 
fit  they  get  from  journeys  that  they  have  dreaded." 

"  Besides,"  said    the   mother   rather    hesitatingly, 


YELLOW  CO  ATS     CALLS     TO    INQUIRE.      233 

"  you  know  there  is  always  a  chance  of  St.  John's  re 
turn." 

"  I  didn't  know,"  said  Missy,  a  little  coldly. 

"  You  know  as  much  as  I  do,"  returned  her  mother. 
"You  saw  his  last  letter.  He  says  all  depends  upon  his 
being  accepted.  He  may  comeback  at  any  time." 

"  Oh,  as  to  that,"  cried  Missy,  "  I  think  there  is  no 
danger  that  he  will  not  be  accepted.  It  would  surprise 
me  very  much  if  he  escaped.  A  man  with  a  hand 
some  income  is  generally  found  to  have  a  vocation." 

"  You  have  been  reading  too  much  Browning  and 
Balzac,  I  am  afraid,"  said  her  mother  with  a  sigh. 

"  I  have  been  reading  life,  and  hard,  common  sense," 
cried  Missy.  "  I  ought  to  have  been  prepared  to  find 
we  were  all  to  sit  meekly  waiting  at  home,  while  the 
saint  of  the  family  was  on  probation.  It  ought  to  be 
honor  enough.  But  I  allow  I  would  like  to  have  a 
voice  in  my  sacrifices,  and  to  make  them  self-denials." 

"  It  is  new  to  me  to  imagine  you  finding  your 
pleasure  anywhere  but  at  home.  Since  you  feel  so 
about  it,  I  am  sure — " 

"  Oh,  don't  say  anything  more  about  it,"  cried 
Missy,  thoroughly  unhinged.  "  I  can  stay  here,  I  sup 
pose.  I  really  am  not  quite  new  at  doing  what  I  don't 
like,  even  if  I  am  only  secular." 

"  You  are  tired,  Missy.  Now  go  and  lie  down,  and 
don't  think  anything  more  about  this  matter.  When 
we  are  both  fresher,  we  will  talk  it  over,  and  you  shall 
decide  what  shall  be  done." 

At  half-past  five  o'clock  she  got  up,  and  dressed 
carefully  for  dinner,  bracing  herself  for  the  ordeal 
with  much  philosophy.  At  dinner,  she  found  her  phil 
osophy  quite  superfluous,  for  Mr.  Andrews  did  not  make 


234       YELLOW  CO  ATS     CALLS     TO     INQUIRE. 

his  appearance,  and  Gabby  scarcely  lifted  her  eyes 
from  her  plate.  This  young  person  had  been  awake 
the  night  before,  and  an  attentive  listener  to  the  con 
versation  between  her  father  and  Missy,  and  it  had 
naturally  made  a  profound  impression  on  her.  It  is 
difficult  to  say  why  Missy  felt  annoyed  that  Mr.  An 
drews  did  not  come  to  dinner.  She  ought  to  have 
felt  relieved  ;  but  on  the  contrary,  she  felt  vexed.  It 
is  always  disagreeable  not  to  act  your  part  when  you 
have  rehearsed  it,  and  feel  well  up  in  it.  But  it  was  a 
great  vexation  to  her  to  think  that  she  was  keeping  him 
from  his  own  dinner-table  by  reason  of  that  unpleasant 
speech  of  the  night  before.  She  had  only  realized  that 
he  wasn't  at  breakfast  at  the  time,  with  a  sense  of  re 
lief.  She  now  remembered  it  with  a  sensation  of 
chagrin.  Also,  she  recalled  his  pallor  and  weariness 
of  expression  last  night,  which  in  her  misery  about  her 
self,  she  had  forgotten.  It  was  possible  he  was  really 
suffering  to-day.  It  was  only  three  days  since  he  had 
met  with  a  serious  accident,  all  in  their  service. 

"  How  is  Mr.  Andrews  feeling  to-day  ?  "  she  asked 
of  the  waitress. 

"  Not  quite  so  well.  Miss,  I  think." 

"  Has.  he  kept  his  room  ?" 

"  Oh,  no,  Miss,  but  he  doesn't  seem  to  have  much 
appetite,  and  I  believe  the  doctor  told  him  he  mustn't 
think  of  going  to  town  for  several  days  yet.  He  had 
been  telling  the  doctor  he  was  going  down,  and  would 
stay  away  perhaps  a  week,  and  promised  to  keep  very 
quiet  there.  But  the  doctor  wouldn't  hear  of  it,  and 
said  the  hot  weather  might  come  on  suddenly,  and 
make  him  very  sick,  and  besides,  he  wasn't  fit  to  bear 
the  journey." 


YELLOWCOATS     CALLS     TO    INQUIRE.      235 

Missy  was  quite  chagrined  by  this  information. 
Mr.  Andrews  had  felt  so  constrained  and  uncomfortable 
in  his  own  house,  he  could  not  bear  it  any  longer.  Or 
else  he  had  so  honorably  desired  to  put  her  at  her  ease 
while  she  had  to  stay,  that  he  had  wanted  to  go  away. 
Either  view  of  the  case  was  bad  enough  ;  but  it  was 
undeniably  an  awkward  situation,  and  if  he  persisted 
in  keeping  away  from  the  table  for  another  meal,  she 
should  feel  that  it  was  unendurable,  and  they  must  go 
away,  range  or  no  range,  order  or  disorder. 

Jay  followed  her  from  the  table,  clinging  to  her 
skirts.  She  went  directly  to  her  mother,  where  the 
child's  prattle  covered  her  absent-minded  silence. 

It  was  a  lovely  June  evening,  fresh  after  the  rain 
of  yesterday,  and  she  sat  by  the  window  watching 
the  pink  clouds  fade  into  gray,  and  the  twilight  make 
its  way  over  the  fields  and  roadside.  Jay  babbled  his 
innocent  babble  to  inattentive  ears  ;  by  and  by  he 
grew  sleepy.  Eliza  came,  and  he  was  sent  away. 

It  was  about  half-past  eight,  when  the  servant  came 
up,  and  said  that  there  was  a  person  below  who  wished 
to  see  Mrs.  or  Miss  Varian.  Missy  struck  a  match  and 
looked  at  the  card.  It  was  the  agent  of  the  insurance 
company,  in  which  the  house  had  been  insured. 

"  Why  could  he  not  come  in  the  daytime  !  I  abso 
lutely  can't  talk  business  to-night." 

The  servant  explained  that  he  came  up  by  the 
evening  train,  had  been  at  the  house,  and  was  to  go 
away  by  an  early  train  in  the  morning. 

There  was  no  help  for  it  ;  Missy  dismissed  the  pink 
clouds  and  the  soft  creeping  twilight  and  her  thoughts, 
and  went  down  stairs  to  the  parlor.  The  room  was 
lighted  only  by  a  lamp  which  stood  on  the  table  in  the 


236       YELLOWCOATS     CALLS     TO    INQUIRE. 

middle  of  it,  by  which  the  agent  sat.  He  was  a  trim, 
dapper,  middle-aged  man,  not  at  all  aware  that  he  was 
not  a  gentleman,  and  very  sharp  about  business  mat 
ters,  while  he  was  affable  and  explanatory,  as  became  a 
business  man  dealing  with  a  young  lady.  His  man 
ner  annoyed  Missy,  who  would  have  got  on  much 
better  if  he  had  been  simply  business-like.  She  knew 
he  had  the  better  of  her  in  his  knowledge  of  matters, 
and  her  memory  was  very  unusually  faulty  about  the 
things  she  ought  to  have  remembered.  The  papers 
were  all  in  her  room  at  home,  and  for  aught  she  knew, 
had  been  lost  or  destroyed  when  that  room  was  torn  to 
pieces  to  save  it  from  the  flames.  She  certainly  had 
not  been  wise  enough  to  think  of  looking  for  them 
since  the  fire  occurred. 

"  You  will  have  to  come  again,"  she  said  ;  "I  really 
am  not  prepared  to-night  to  talk  it  over." 

He  seemed  disposed  to  take  advantage  of  this,  and 
rather  pressed  an  immediate  decision  on  some  question. 

It  was  not  till  this  moment  that  Missy  knew  that 
Mr.  Andrews  was  in  the  room.  He  was  lying  on  a 
sofa  in  a  corner,  and  a  screen  stood  before  him, 
shielding  him  from  the  light. 

"Mr.  Andrews,  I  beg  your  pardon,"  she  said,  get 
ting  up.  "I  am  afraid  we  are  disturbing  you.  I 
didn't  know  you  were  here.  We  will  go  into  the 
dining-room  if  this  gentleman  has  anything  more  to 
say." 

"I  don't  think  he  has,"  said  Mr.  Andrews,  rais 
ing  himself  a  little  on  his  elbow.  "  Don't  think  of 
going  to  the  dining-room,  or  of  discussing  the  matter 
further,  for  I  am  sure  you  are  too  tired  to-night.  Per 
haps  I  can  attend  to  the  matter  for  you." 


YELLOW  CO  ATS     CALLS     TO    INQUIRE.      237 

An  inquiring  look  towards  the  agent  had  a  very 
salutary  effect  upon  him.  It  was  quite  amazing  to 
notice  how  his  manner  changed  when  he  found  he  had 
a  man  to  deal  with.  Missy  sat  by  humbled,  while  she 
listened  to  their  talk. 

Why  couldn't  she  have  been  business-like  ?  Why 
couldn't  she  have  said  what  Mr.  Andrews  was  saying, 
without  "  losing  her  head,"  and  getting  nervous  ?  It 
was  her  affair,  and  she  certainly  ought  to  know  more 
about  it  than  he  did. 

When  the  man  was  fairly  out  of  the  door,  she  gave 
a  sigh,  and  said  : 

"  I  am  very  much  obliged  to  you,  Mr.  Andrews, 
for  helping  me  out  of  it." 

"  I  think  the  man  is  rather  a  sharper,  and  I'm  afraid 
you  are  not  a  business  woman,  Miss  Rothermel." 

"  I  am  afraid  not ;  and  I  always  meant  to  be." 

Then  there  was  a  pause.  Mr.  Andrews  laid  his 
head  back  on  the  pillow  of  the  sofa,  and  seemed  not  to 
have  anything  more  to  say.  Missy  had  a  great  deal 
to  say,  but  she  didn't  know  where  to  begin.  She  was 
full  of  contrition  and  purposes  of  amendment ;  but  the 
situation  was  most  embarrassing,  and  Mr.  Andrews 
was  not  inclined  to  help  her.  Time  pressed.  It  was 
insupportable  to  sit  still  by  the  lamp,  and  not  say  any 
thing.  Mr.  Andrews  was  lying  down,  too.  What  if 
any  one  should  come  in,  and  find  her  sitting  there,  en 
tertaining  him  ?  She  wished  for  Aunt  Harriet — for  any 
one  ;  but  she  must  say  her  say  ;  and  she  rushed  at  it. 

"  I  am  afraid,"  she  said,  in  a  voice  that  showed  agi 
tation,  "I  am  afraid  you  are  not  so  well  to-day,  Mr. 
Andrews." 

"I  have  had  an  uncomfortable  day;  but  I  don't 


238       YELLOW  GO  ATS     CALLS     TO    INQUIRE . 

suppose  I  am  materially  worse — at  least  the  doctor 
doesn't  tell  me  so." 

Then  another  pause.  Certainly  he  did  not  mean  to 
help  her. 

"I  am  afraid,"  she  said,  getting  up,  and  laying 
down  upon  the  table  the  paper-cutter  that  she  had 
been  turning  and  twisting  in  her  fingers,  "I  am  afraid 
our  being  here  makes  you  very  uncomfortable.  And 
it  ought  to  be  just  the  other  way.  We  are  so  much 
indebted  to  you  !  You  have  been  so  good — and — 
and—" 

She  made  a  step  toward  him,  and  standing  behind 
the  screen  in  front  of  his  sofa,  which  came  up  to  her 
waist,  leaned  on  it  for  a  moment,  looking  down — then 
said,  "I  don't  know  how  to  express  it,  exactly  ;  I  hope 
you'll  understand.  I  know  I  haven't  behaved  well 
about — about — things — but  I  suppose  I  had  some  ex 
cuse.  It  is  so  hard  to  remember  one's  own  insignifi 
cance,  and  to  think  only  about  other  people  !  I  have 
thought  of  no  one's  discomforts  or  miseries  but  my 
own.  I  haven't  been  nice  at  all  ;  I've  been  horrid.  I 
never  should  have  believed  it  of  myself.  At  my  age 
it  seems  so  paltry  and  undignified  to  be  minding  what 
people  may  say  or  think,  if  only  you  know  you're 
doing  right.  I  have  resolved  I  will  never  let  it  come 
into  my  mind  again,  nor  affect  my  conduct  in  any  way. 
And  I  hope  you  will  excuse  my  rudeness,  and  the  dis 
comfort  I  have  caused  you,  and  will  let  me  make  up 
for  it  in  some  way,  while  we  stay  with  you." 

He  lay  looking  at  her  as  she  stood  behind  the 
screen,  leaning  a  little  toward  him  on  her  folded  arms. 
The  only  light  in  the  room  was  behind  her,  shining 
through  her  fair,  fine  hair,  now  in  a  little  curling  dis- 


TELLOWCOAT8     CALLS    TO    INQUIRE.      239 

order  ;  all  her  face  was  in  shadow.  It  is  possible  she 
looked  to  the  lonely  man  almost  a  "  blessed  damosel," 
leaning  to  him  out  of  Heaven. 

"  You  have  made  up  for  it,"  he  said,  "  very  fully. 
I  hope  we  shall  alsvays  be  friends,  if  you  will  let  me." 

"  It  shan't  be  my  fault  if  we  are  not,"  she  said. 
Then,  hurriedly  saying  good-night,  she  went  away. 
There  was  a  clock  in  the  hall,  which  struck  nine  as  she 
passed  it.  It  had  a  peculiar  tone,  and  she  never  could 
forget  it.  It  had  been  striking  as  she  passed  it  on  the 
gloomy  morning  last  summer,  when  she  had  hurried  to 
that  fearful  death-bed. 

It  gave  her  a  pang  to  hear  it  now.  It  seemed 
sharply  to  accuse  her  of  something.  It  recalled  to  her 
all  her  prejudices,  all  her  resolutions.  It  brought  to 
her  mind  his  manner  when  she  had  told  him  of  his  wife's 
death,  his  absence  of  feeling  in  all  the  days  that  fol 
lowed.  It  revived  his  banishing  the  mother's  memory 
from  the  children's  minds  ;  his  ready  purpose  to  send 
away  her  favorite  Gabrielle.  And  then  she  thought  of 
what  she  had  just  been  saying — of  what  he  had  just 
said,  and  in  what  an  earnest  way  !  Her  face  burned  at 
the  recollection. 

"  Am  I  never  to  have  any  peace  in  this  tiresome 
matter,"  she  said  to  herself  as  she  shut  herself  into  her 
room.  "I  will  not  think  of  it  any  more,  while  I  am 
obliged  to  remain  in  this  house.  I  will  honestly  do  all 
I  can  to  make  things  comfortable  ;  he  has  done  enough 
to  make  that  proper.  Afterwards  I  will  keep  my 
promise  by  being  kind  to  the  children,  and  by  really 
serving  them  when  it  is  in  my  power.  It  does  not  in 
volve  me  in  any  intimacy  with  him.  You  can  stand 
a  person's  friend,  and  not  see  him  once  a  year.  I  will 


240  A    MISOGYNIST. 

never  do  anything  to  injure  or  annoy  him.  That  is 
being  an  honest  friend,  as  we  are  bidden  to  be,  even  to 
our  enemies.  I  have  put  myself  and  my  pride  away. 
I  will  do  all  I  can  to  forward  the  comfort  and  pleasure 
of  every  one  in  the  house,  and  there  is  the  end  of  it." 


CHAPTER  XV. 
A    MISOGYNIST. 

CTING  upon  this  wise  resolution,  Missy  came 
down  the  next  morning  a  little  late,  to 
breakfast.  She  was  not  going  to  escape 
any  one.  She  had  on  a  fresh  cambric 
morning-dress,  and  some  roses  in  her  belt.  The  break 
fast-table  looked  quite  populous  when  she  entered,  for 
Mr.  Andrews  was  at  the  foot  of  the  table,  and  the  two 
children  on  one  side,  and  Miss  Varian  on  the  other,  in 
the  seat  that  had  been  placed  for  Missy.  Miss  Varian's 
corning  had  been  rather  a  surprise  to  every  one,  for  she 
had  been  nursing  her  neuralgia  so  assiduously,  no  one 
imagined  it  would  go  away  so  soon.  Mr.  Andrews  got 
up  when  Miss  Rothermel  came  in,  and  Jay  shouted  a 
welcome  from  out  of  his  hominy  plate. 

Aunt  Harriet  said,  "  Well,  Missy,  I  suppose  you 
didn't  expect  to  see  me." 

"  You've  got  Missy's  place,"  said  Jay,  without 
ceremony. 

"Oh,  no  matter,"  cried  Missy,  turning  a  little  pale, 
for  she  foresaw  that  her  fate  would  be  to  sit  at  the 


A     MISOGYNIST.  241 

head  of  the  table  and  pour  out  the  tea.  Nobody  sat 
there  ordinarily,  and  the  waitress  poured  out  the  tea. 
But  the  table  was  not  very  large,  and  Aunt  Harriet 
had  spread  out  herself,  and  her  strawberries,  and  her 
glass  of  water,  and  her  cup  of  coffee,  and  her  little 
bouquet  of  flowers,  over  so  much  of  the  side  on  which 
she  sat,  that  it  would  have  caused  quite  a  disturbance 
to  have  made  a  place  for  Missy  there. 

"  Where  will  you  sit,  Miss  Rothermel  ?"  asked  the 
waitress,  with  her  hand  on  the  chair,  looking  perplexed, 
and  glancing  from  the  encumbered  neighborhood  of 
Miss  Varian,  to  the  freer  region  behind  the  urn  and 
tea-cups. 

"  Oh,  anywhere,  it  makes  no  difference,"  said  Missy, 
determined  not  to  fail  the  first  time  she  was  put  to  the 
test.  "  Here,  if  it  is  more  convenient." 

The  servant  placed  the  chair  at  the  head  of  the 
table,  which  Missy  promptly  took.  Mr.  Andrews,  who 
had  been  standing  with  rather  an  anxious  face,  as  if 
he  saw  his  guest's  struggle,  sat  down  with  a  relieved 
expression. 

"  You  are  just  in  time  to  reconstruct  my  coffee," 
said  Miss  Varian.  "Among  her  other  good  qualities, 
Mr.  Andrews,  your  waitress  does  not  number  making 
good  coffee.  Mine  is  tepid,  and  the  cream  was  put 
in  last,  I  am  sure.  You  must  let  Missy  make  you  a 
cup  ;  I  am  afraid  you  have  forgotten  what  good  coffee 
is,  if  you  have  been  drinking  this  all  winter." 

Missy  bit  her  lip,  and  then  shrugged  her  shoulder, 
and  gave  Mr.  Andrews  a  comical  glance,  as  the  only 
way  of  getting  over  her  aunt's  rudeness.  She  also  gave 
the  servant  a  smile,  and  a  little  shake  of  the  head,  as 
she  handed  the  hot  cup  of  coffee  to  her.  The  woman 
11 


242  A     MISOGYNIST. 

was  very  red  and  angry,  but  this  mollified  her.  Miss 
Varian  had  the  most  artless  way  of  insulting  servants. 
Nothing  but  the  general  understanding,  that  it  was 
her  way,  and  the  certainty  that  she  would  give  them 
a  good  deal  of  money  at  Christmas,  kept  the  servants 
at  home  respectful  to  her. 

"  Yes,  Missy  does  understand  putting  a  cup  of 
coffee  together,  even  when  it's  only  tolerable  to  begin 
with,"  she  said,  tasting  it  with  satisfaction.  "  I  think, 
Missy,  if  you  showed  the  cook  your  way  of  making  it, 
to-morrow  morning,  Mr.  Andrews  would  bless  you 
every  day  of  his  life." 

"  Why,  my  dear  aunt,  the  coffee  is  excellent,"  cried 
Missy,  "I  don't  know  what  you  are  thinking  of. 
Next  you'll  be  criticising  these  muffins,  which  are 
perfect.  Shall  I  give  you  one  ?  "  Soon  after  this,  the 
servant  left  the  room,  ostensibly  to  get  some  hot 
muffins,  but  really  to  pour  out  her  wrath  to  the  cook. 
While  she  was  gone,  Missy  perceived  that  Mr.  An 
drews  had  neither  tea  nor  coffee,  and  was  eating  very 
little  breakfast.  "  Are  you  not  going  to  have  coffee  ?" 
she  said. 

"  If  you  will  give  me  some,  I  think  I  should 
like  to  judge  whether  Miss  Varian  is  right."  So  Missy 
made  him  a  cup  of  coffee,  very  hot  and  nice,  and  as 
there  was  no  waitress  in  the  room,  got  up  and  carried 
it  to  him  herself,  before  he  knew  what  she  was 
doing. 

"  I  beg  you'll  say  it's  good,"  she  said.  "  Now,  Jay," 
as  she  passed  him,  "you  surely  have  had  hominy 
enough.  Don't  you  want  some  strawberries."  So  she 
got  him  a  plate  from  the  side-board,  and  gave  him 
some  strawberries,  and  a  kiss,  and  put  the  muffins 


A     MISOGYNIST.  243 

within  Gabby 's  reach  before  she  sat  down.  Mr.  An 
drews'  anxiety  quite  melted  away,  and  he  began  to 
enjoy  his  breakfast. 

"  While  you  are  up,  Missy,"  said  Miss  Varian,  just 
after  she  sat  down,  "  give  me  a  glass  of  water." 

Missy  laughed,  and  so  did  Jay  and  even  Gabrielle, 
who  looked  alarmed  as  soon  as  she  had  done  it.  Could 
a  person  be  sent  to  boarding-school  for  laughing  in 
the  wrong  place,  she  wondered.  Missy  gave  her  aunt 
the  glass  of  water,  and  arranged  things  so  that  she 
could  find  them  near  her  plate.  And  so,  the  breakfast 
that  had  begun  so  threateningly,  ended  quite  peace 
fully.  The  morning  was  warm,  but  lovely. 

"  I  think,  if  you  will  take  me  to  the  piazza,  T  will 
sit  there  awhile,  Missy,  but  you  will  have  to  get  me 
my  shawl  and  hat,  or  go  off  on  a  cruise  to  find 
Goneril,  who  is  never  where  she  ought  to  be." 

"  Oh,  we'll  indulge  Goneril  with  a  little  breakfast 
to  put  her  in  a  good  humor  for  the  day,  and  I'll 
find  the  shawl  and  hat,"  said  Missy,  taking  her  aunt's 
hand  to  lead  her  from  the  room. 

Jay  came  to  make  her  give  him  her  other  hand, 
and  Gabby,  allured  by  the  sight  of  a  new  bauble  on 
Miss  Varian's  watch-chain,  followed  them  closely. 
Miss  Varian  was  established  on  the  front  piazza, 
sheltered  from  the  sun  and  wind  (and  conspicuous  to 
the  passers-by),  Gabby  was  nailed  to  her  side  in  fasci 
nated  contemplation  of  the  trinket,  which,  it  was  quite 
probable,  the  capricious  lady  would  end  by  giving  her, 
and  Missy  was  free  to  go  to  her  mother  for  a  little 
while.  In  half  an  hour  she  came  down  ready  to  go  to 
her  work  in  the  dismantled  house.  She  went  into  the 
parlor  to  find  her  parasol,  and  there  was  Mr. 


244  A    MISOGYNIST. 

•with  letters  and  papers  before  him,  trying  painfully  to 
write  with  his  stiff  left  hand.  "  Oh,  you  must  let  me 
do  that  for  you,"  cried  Missy,  pulling  off  her  gloves. 
"  If  they  are  business  letters,  that  is,"  with  a  little 
hesitation,  for  she  caught  sight  of  a  woman's  hand 
writing,  amonjr  the  letters  before  him. 

O7  O 

"  The  business  ones  are  the  pressing  ones.  It  would 
be  a  great  kindness,  if  you  could.  But  you  are  needed 
at  the  house,  perhaps." 

"  I  can  write  for  half  an  hour  or  so.  I  have  sent 
the  women  over,  with  their  work  laid  out  for  them  for 
all  the  morning.  I  am  quite  used  to  this.  I  write  Aunt 
Harriet's  letters  every  evening,  till  I  go  almost  to  sleep." 

"I  shall  not  let  you  go  to  sleep,"  said  Mr. 
Andrews,  "over  mine/'  So  Missy  wrote,  and  Mr. 
Andrews  dictated,  for  half  an  hour  at  least.  "  That 
is  all  that  is  needed  no\v  ;  I  am  very  much  obliged 
to  you." 

"  There  are  a  good  many  more  before  you  yet," 
she  said,  glancing  at  the  heap. 

"They  will  do  as  well  another  time.  Perhaps,  if 
anything  comes  to-day  that  has  to  be  attended  to,  you 
wi'il  be  kind  enough  to  write  me  a  few  lines  to-night." 

"  Yes,  of  course  ;  and  if  you  want  anything  for 
the  afternoon  mail,  don't  fail  to  send  over  for  me." 
Then  she  went  away,  feeling  very  virtuous. 

In  the  afternoon,  as  she  came  down  the  steps  to  go 
back  to  see  if  her  mother  wanted  her,  she  saw  Mr. 
Andrews'  just  entering  at  the  gate.  It  was  the  first 
time  that  he  had  been  out,  and  he  showed  his  four 
days'  confinement  to  the  house.  As  she  met  him,  he 
said,  with  a  little  hesitation,  "I  have  come  to  see  if 
you  won't  go  out  for  a  little  drive  with  us  this  after- 


A     MISOGYNIST.  245 

noon.  It  is  too  fine  a  day  to  be  shut  up  in  the 
house." 

Her  heart  sank.  A  drive  en  famille  with  the 
Andrews',  in  the  teeth  of  all  that  had  happened  in  the 
last  few  days  !  How  could  she  brave  it?  Her  color 
changei  a  little  and  perhaps  he  saw  it. 

"Don't  go  if  you  don't  fancy  it,"  he  said. 

"  Oh,  it's  just  the  afternoon  for  a  drive.  But  I  was 
going  back  to  sit  with  mamma,  who  has  been  alone  all 
day." 

"  I  sent  up  to  Mrs.  Varian's  room  to  see  if  there 
were  any  chance  that  she  would  go  with  us,  and 
Goncril  came  creeping  out  on  tiptoe  to  say  she  had 
just  fallen  asleep,  and  must  not  be  disturbed." 

The  last  hope  was  extinguished  ;  she  made  just  one 
more  cowardly  attempt.  "But  you,"  she  said,  "  are 
you  well  enough  ?  Isn't  it  rather  against  the  doctor's 
orders  ?" 

"  No,  he  gave  me  permission  himself  this  morning, 
finding  me  very  much  improved." 

Then  Missy  said  to  herself,  "  I  should  think  the 
man  could  see —  And  aloud  she  said,  "  Oh,  there 
is  nothing  in  the  way.  I'll  go  to  the  house  for  my 
gloves  and  vail." 

When  she  came  back  the  open  wagon  stood  before 
the  gate  of  the  cottage.  Jay  was  already  in  it,  brand 
ishing  the  whip  and  shouting,  much  to  Michael's  dis 
pleasure,  who  stood  by  the  horses'  heads.  Mr.  Andrews 
was  coming  from  the  house.  Gabby  stood  behind  a 
post  of  the  piazza,  showing  a  face  lead-color  with  sul- 
lenness  and  disappointment.  She  had  no  hat  on,  and 
was  evidently  not  to  be  of  the  party. 

"  Isn't  Gabhy  going?"  said  Missy  to  Jay. 


246  A    MISOGYNIST. 

"No,"  cried  Jay,  in  selfish  satisfaction,  "Papa  says 
there  isn't  room." 

"  Poor  Gabby  !  why,  that  won't  do,"  she  said,  going 
to  meet  Mr.  Andrews  in  the  path.  "  Won't  you  take 
Gabrielle  ?''  she  said.  "  There  is  plenty  of  room  for  the 
two  children  with  tne  on  the  back  seat." 

Miss  Rothermel  enjoyed  being  magnanimous  so 
much,  Mr.  Andrews  hadn't  the  heart  to  refuse  her. 

"  Which  way  are  we  going  ?"  he  asked,  as  Michael 
drove  slowly.  Jay  clamored  for  a  drive,  which  took 
them  through  the  village.  Miss  Rothermel,  of  course, 
would  give  no  vote.  Gabrielle,  when  questioned,  agreed 
with  Jay.  Mr.  Andrews  admitted  it  was  a  pretty 
drive.  "  The  greatest  good  of  the  greatest  number," 
thought  Missy,  while  Michael  drove  that  way. 

They  took  the  road  through  the  village,  where  the 
men  sat  thick  on  the  store  steps,  and  where  the  young 
village  maidens  were  taking  their  afternoon  saunter. 
They  met  the  Sombreros,  they  met  the  Oldhams  and  the 
Olors — whom  did  they  not  meet,  enjoying  or  enduring 
their  afternoon  drive?  Mr.  Andrews  had  his  arm  in  an 
unnecessarily  conspicuous  sling.  It  was  malicious  of 
Goneril  to  put  on  that  glaring  great  white  silk  hand 
kerchief.  He  was  labeled  hero,  and  people  could  not 
help  looking.  Missy  did  not  blame  them,  but  it  was 
horrid  all  the  same.  However,  when  they  were  out  of 
the  village,  and  there  were  comparatively  few  people  to 
meet,  the  influence  of  the  charming  day  and  the 
absence  of  charred  remains  and  disordered  rooms  be 
gan  to  brighten  her,  and  she  almost  liked  it.  They 
drove  along  a  road  by  the  bay.  The  tide  was  high, 
and  was  breaking  with  a  contented  little  purring  sound 
against  the  pebbles  ;  little  boats  bent  idly  with  the  in- 


A    MISOGYNIST.  247 

coming  tide  and  pulled  lazily  at  their  anchors.  The 
bay  was  as  blue  as  the  sky  ;  some  white  sails  drifted  on 
it,  for  scenic  effect,  no  doubt,  for  what  else  ?  for  there 
was  no  wind,  but  only  a  fresh  cool  air  that  came  in 
puffs  and  ripples  across  the  water.  Beside  them, 
on  the  other  side  of  the  road,  were  green  and  flower 
ing  banks,  where  Jay  saw  wild  roses  and  anemones 
and  little  nameless  and  beloved  wild  flowers.  There 
was  privet  budding  and  hawthorn  fading,  and  bar 
berry  and  catbrier  and  wild  grape,  in  fresh  June  color 
ing.  Little  dust  came  here  in  this  narrow  road,  and 
with  this  constant  dampness  from  the  bay.  Nobody 
pulled  down  the  vines,  and  they  hung  in  undisturbed 
festoons  from  the  cedars  and  the  stones. 

"  I  like  this,"  said  Jay,  with  a  sort  of  sigh,  after  a 
long  moment  of  silence. 

"  So  do  I,"  said  Missy,  giving  him  a  kiss. 

The  sun  was  behind  the  cedar  and  barberry  and 
catbrier  banks.  They  went  as  far  down  the  Neck  as 
there  was  a  road  to  go,  and  then  turned  back,  "the 
gait  they  cam'  again."  The  children  were  exception 
ally  good,  and  no  one  talked  much.  It  was  not 
the  sort  of  hour  when  one  talks  much,  good  or  bad, 
or  thinks  much,  either.  Enough  bliss  it  was  to  be 
alive, 

"But  to  be  young  was  very  heaven." 

Jay  liked  it,  and  Missy  liked  it  too,  though  she 
was  twenty-seven.  And  Mr.  Andrews,  possibly, 
though  he  did  not  say  anything  about  it. 

When  they  came  up  the  steep  little  hill  by  the  old 
mill,  Jay  felt  the  spell  of  the  water  aud  the  wild- 


248  A    MISOGYNIST. 

flowers  broken,  and  began  to  clamor  to  be  taken  over 
on  the  front  seat  between  papa  and  Michael.  He  was 
cold,  he  said,  and  he  wanted  to  see  the  horses,  and  he 
didn't  want  to  stay  where  he  was,  in  point  of  fact.  It 
was  rather  a  serious  thing  to  contradict  Jay,  and  to 
carry  him  howling  through  the  village,  like  a  band  to 
call  attention  to  the  arrival  of  a  circus.  It  was  well 
to  afford  entertainment  to  one's  neighbors,  but  Missy 
did  not  think  it  necessary  to  court  occasions  of  sacrifice, 
so,  with  her  pleasure  much  diminished,  they  stopped, 
while  Mr.  Andrews  managed  to  put  out  his  one  stiff 
hand,  and  then  she  proceeded  to  push  the  hopeful  boy 
over  the  back  of  the  seat,  and  establish  him  between 
his  father  and  the  coachman. 

"  I  must  say,  Jay,  you  are  a  spoiled  child,"  she  ex 
claimed. 

"  That's  so  !"  cried  Jay.  complacently,  making  a 
lunge  towards  the  whip. 

"If  you  say  'that's  so'  again,  I  shall  be  angry 
with  you,"  said  Missy.  "Mr.  Andrews,  won't  you  try 
to  stop  the  children  from  talking  this  vulgar  slang. 
Jolly,  coquettish,  bizarre  slang  I  don't  mind,  once  in  a 
very  great  while,  from  children,  but  this  sort  of 
kitchen  and  village  boy  vulgarity  they  never  will  get 
over,  if  they  keep  it  up  much  longer." 

"I  have  done  my  best,"  said  Mr.  Andrews. 

"  Well,  I  hope  you'll  excuse  me  for  saying  I  don't 
think  you  have  covered  yourself  with  glory." 

"  Jay,  we're  a  bad  lot  ;  we  must  reform  at  once," 
said  the  father,  putting  his  stiff  arm  around  his  boy, 
and  giving  him  a  hug.  "Miss  Rothermel  will  give  us 
up  if  we  don't." 

"That's  so  !"   cried  Jay,  boisterously,  kicking  the 


A  MISOGYNIST.  249 

shawl  off  his  logs,  and  nearly  tumbling  off  the  seat  in 
his  enthusiasm. 

"I  have  given  you  up,"  said  Missy.  "Don't  put 
yourselves  to  the  trouble  of  reforming  on  my  account." 

Nothing  seemed  to  disturb  the  tranquillity  of  Mr. 
Andrews  this  evening.  He  looked  around  and  saw 
Missy's  face  darken  as  they  found  themselves  meeting 
carriages  arriving  from  the  cars,  but  it  did  not  seem 
to  depress  him  ;  on  the  contrary,  he  seemed  quietly 
amused. 

"  The  cars  are  three-quarters  of  an  hour  late  !"  ex 
claimed  Missy,  unguardedly  ;  "  I  thought  we  should 
have  escaped  them." 

"There  is  no  dust  to-night,"  said  Mr.  Andrews; 
"  so  they  don't  do  us  any  harm." 

"Xo,  of  course  not,"  murmured  Missy,  bowing 
stiffly  to  Mrs.  Eve  and  her  placid-looking  son,  who 
swept  past  them  as  if  they  were  fugitives  from  justice. 

"  There  was  racing  and  chasing  on  Cannobie  Lea  1" 

It  was  amazing  why  every  one  who  came  from  the 
cars  by  the  late  train  drove  as  if  pursued  by  fate. 

When  they  reached  home,  there  was  another  trial 
awaiting  Missy.  A  long-legged,  good-looking  man 
•was  sitting  on  the  piazza,  with  his  feet  higher  than  his 
head,  and  a  meerschaum  in  his  mouth.  He  came  for 
ward  briskly  to  meet  the  arrival  and  welcome  his 
host ;  but  he  was  aghast  to  find  a  well-dressed  young 
lady  getting  out  of  the  carriage,  and  could  scarcely 
command  words  to  explain  that  he  had  only  that  day 
heard  of  his  friend's  accident,  and  had  hurried  up,  by 
the  just-arrived  train,  to  learn  its  extent.  He  was 
11* 


250  A  MISOGYNIST. 

evidently  one  of  Mr.  Andrews'  bachelor  friends — a 
woman-hater,  like  himself  ;  and  his  thorough  chagrin 
at  seeing  Miss  Rotherrnel,  after  an  introduction,  go 
into  the  house,  would  have  been  amusing  to  any  one 
less  intimately  connected  with  the  surprise.  Just  as 
Missy — followed  closely  by  the  children,  and,  at  a  little 
distance,  by  the  two  gentlemen — was  entering  the 
house,  a  second  female  cavalcade,  headed  by  Miss 
Varian,  attended  by  two  maids  bearing  bathing-clothes 
and  towels,  came  from  the  direction  of  the  water,  and 
met  them  upon  the  piazza. 

"Is  that  you,  Missy  ?"  said  her  aunt ;  "I  have  been 
trying  my  first  bath  of  the  season  ;  and  I  assure  you  it 
was  cold."  As  if  this  were  not  enough  to  try  the 
nerves  of  the  poor  misogynist,  Mrs.  Varian  at  this  mo 
ment  descended  the  stairs,  accompanied  by  Anne  with 
her  shawl  and  book. 

"  I  thought  I  would  give  you  a  surprise,  Missy," 
she  said,  with  her  sweet  smile,  "and  be  down-stairs  to 
meet  you." 

Missy  kissed  her,  and  tried  to  look  as  if  it  were  an 
agreeable  surprise.  The  cup  of  the  guest's  amazement 
was  now  apparently  full.  Here  were  six  strange  wo 
men  gathered  on  his  friend's  threshold  to  meet  him, 
all  evidently  at  home.  Had  Mr.  Andrews'  accident 
affected  his  reason,  and  had  he  begun  a  collection  of 
these  specimens,  that  had  lately  be^n  his  abhorrence  ? 
What  had  occurred,  to  turn  this  peaceful  abode  of 
meerschaum  and  Bourbon  into  a  clear-starched  and 
be-ribboned  country  house,  where  shooting-coats  and 
colored  shirts  were  out  of  place?  What  should  he  do 
about  his  boots  ?  Was  there  a  train  to  town  to-night? 
or  ought  he  to  stay,  and  look  after  poor  Andrews? 


A  MISOGYNIST.  251 

"Wasn't  it  his  duty  to  telegraph  to  some  one  in  town 
at  once  for  medical  advice?  lie  had  always  heard 
that  people  turned  against  their  friends  when  the 
brain  was  involved  ;  and,  most  likely,  this  was  a  case 
in  point,  and  Andrews  had  turned  toward  his  enemies, 
as  well. 

All  these  thoughts  rushed  through  his  mind  (and 
it  wasn't  a  mind  that  could  bear  rushes  through  it, 
without  showing  its  disturbance),  while  Mr.  Andrews, 
with  unusual  urbanity,  was  bowing  to  Mrs.  Varian, 
and  making  her  welcome.  It  was  the  first  time  she 
had  been  down-stairs  since  she  had  been  in  the  house, 
and  it  seemed  to  give  him  a  great  deal  of  pleasure. 
She  always  called  out  in  him,  as  in  every  man  who 
met  her,  the  highest  degree  of  chivalry  that  was  in 
him. 

But  the  guest  did  not  look  at  her  ;  he  only  looked 
at  his  friend,  transformed  into  a  ladies'  man,  a  Chester 
field — everything  that  he  wasn't  before.  lie  stag 
gered  in  his  gait  as  he  looked  on,  and  took  hold  of 
the  door-post  for  support.  Missy  was  glad  Mr. 
Andrews  did  not  observe  his  agitation  ;  but  none  of 
it  escaped  her,  and  she  longed  to  give  a  chance  for 
explanation. 

"  What  can  he  think  of  us  ?  "  she  reflected  miser 
ably.  But  no  moment  for  explanation  arrived.  The 
dinner-bell  rang,  with  sharp  promptness,  as  they  stood 
in  the  doorway.  It  was  Melinda's  night  out,  and  no 
grass  was  allowed  to  grow  under  the  family's  feet 
when  that  night  came  round.  The  children  were 
hungry  too,  and  rushed  ahead  into  the  dining-room  ; 
so  nothing  remained  for  Mr.  Andrews,  but  to  lay 
down  his  hat,  give  his  arm  to  Mrs.  Varian  and  follow 


252  A  MISOGYNIST. 

them  in.  Miss  Varian  exclaimed  she  wasn't  ready  for 
dinner,  just  coming  from  the  bath,  but  Missy  dreaded 
her  disturbing  them  by  coming  in  later,  and  begged, 
her  to  come  at  once.  She  was  hungry,  and  consented. 
The  guest,  whose  name  seemed  to  be  McKenzie,  had 
nothing  to  do  but  to  follow.  There  were  places 
enough  arranged  at  the  table,  but  by  a  villainous, 
vicious  contrivance  of  fate,  every  one  got  a  seat  before 
Missy,  who  bad  to  place  her  aunt  at  table,  and  she 
was  left  staring  at  her  enthronement  at  the  head. 
"I  don't  think  I'd  better  sit  here,"  she  faltered  rather 
low  to  Mr.  McKenzie,  who  was  stranded  beside  her, 
"  I  think  there  may  be  something  to  carve,  and  I'm 
not  much  at  that." 

"Oh,  by  no  means,"  he  exclaimed,  hurriedly,  "  I 
couldn't  think  of  it — that  is — I  am  sure  you  belong 
there — I — I — you — that  is — " 

"  Oh,  very  well,"  said  Missy,  seeing  that  Mr.  An 
drews  was  looking  rather  anxiously  in  their  direction, 
and  sank  into  her  seat. 

"I  wrant  to  sit  next  to  Missy,"  cried  Jay.  "  Even 
if  she  was  cross  to  me,  I  love  her  all  the  same,  don't 
you,  papa  ?" 

"  All  the  same,"  said  Mr.  Andrews,  smiling,  and 
not  looking  disconcerted,  as  he  took  the  stopper  out 
of  the  decanter  by  him.  Missy  was  very  angry  for  a 
moment.  Why  had  he  not  been  disconcerted,  as  she 
most  unhappily  was  ?  But  in  a  few  moments  she 
thought  better  of  it,  and  was  ashamed  of  herself. 
There  was  poor  mamma,  who  had  made  such  an 
effort  to  come  down  ;  she  must  have  a  cheerful  hour 
at  all  events.  And  the  miserable  man  next  her  must 
be  put  at  ease.  The  room  was  rather  warm,  and  his 


A   MISOGYNIST.  253 

heat  increased  his  agitation.  His  soup  almost  choked 
him,  and  Missy  at  one  time  thought  she  should  have  to 
introduce  him  to  his  napkin,  he  seemed  too  ill  at  ease 
to  find  it,  though  it  was  heside  his  plate.  She  put  the 
salt  within  his  reach,  but  he  didn't  see  it,  and  a  water 
bottle,  but  he  was  even  beyond  that.  So  she  filled 
his  glass  and  pushed  it  towards  him.  He  saw  it  at 
last,  and  drank  it  off  at  one  gulp. 

"  Mr.  Andrews,"  said  Missy,  "  can  we  have  the 
door  a  little  open  ?  It  is  rather  warm  at  this  end  of 
the  room." 

"Certainly,  Miss  Rothermel,"  exclaimed  Mr.  An 
drews,  getting  up  to  open  it.  "  Why  didn't  you  speak 
before  ?" 

"  Heavens  !  Missy,  what  are  you  thinking  about ! 
The  door  open  on  rny  back.  I  should  be  ill  with 
neuralgia  in  half  an  hour.  Mr.  Andrews,  I  beg  you'll 
have  a  little  mercy  on  us.  Missy  will  kill  off  all  the 
household  if  you  let  her  have  her  way  about  ventila 
tion." 

"  Oh  !  n'importe,"  cried  Missy,  as  Mr.  Andrews 
stood  irresolute  and  embarrassed.  "Mr.  McKenzie 
and  I  may  die  of  asphyxia,  but  that  would  be  better 
than  Aunt  Harriet's  getting  neuralgia.  Pray  sit 
down,  Mr.  Andrews,  I  really  am  used  to  it." 

"And  I,"  said  Miss  Varian,  going  on  uninterrupt 
edly  with  her  dinner,  "am  quite  familiar  with  these 
cases  of  asphyxia.  Pray  don't  be  disturbed,  Mr.  An 
drews.  Miss  Rothermel  has  them  two  or  three  times 
a  week." 

It  was  so  ludicrous,  the  uninterrupted  calm  of  Miss 
Varian,  who  knew  she  was  going  to  have  her  own 
way,  and  the  heat  and  agitation  of  the  others  ;  that, 


254  A  MISOGYNIST. 

as  Mr.  Andrews  reluctantly  took  his  seat,  they  all 
laughed' 

"  It  is  quite  true,"  said  Mrs.  Varian,  wishing  to 
reconcile  him.  "  You  know,  Missy,  you  are  very  im 
prudent.  I  believe  your  aunt  has  saved  you  from  a 
great  many  colds.'' 

"From  an  early  grave,  no  doubt,"  said  Missy,  fan 
ning  herself,  and  giving  Mr.  McKenzie  another  glass 
of  water,  while  he  was  looking  amazed  from  Mrs.  Var 
ian  to  her  sister-in-law.  He  was  still  quite  incapable 
of  helping  himself. 

"  If  he  has  apoplexy,  it  will  be  on  my  conscience," 
thought  Missy.  So,  after  the  discussion,  she  signalled 
the  waitress  to  open  a  window  near.  This  was  quietly 
done,  and  Miss  Varian  never  knew  it,  not  being  as 
sensitively  organized  as  she  thought  she  was.  In  the 
meanwhile,  something  had  come  on  the  table  which 
had  to  be  carved,  aud  it  had  been  put  before  Mr. 
Andrews. 

"  This  is  a  hard  case,"  said  the  host,  "  but  a  man 
with  '  never  a  hand  '  can't  carve.  McKenzie,  I  believe 
I  must  put  it  upon  you." 

This  was  exactly  the  last  straw.  The  wretched 
man  actually  gasped.  lie  writhed,  he  tried  to  speak. 

"  Can't  Melinda  ?"  said  Missy,  quite  forgetting 
that  it  wasn't  her  place  to  make  suggestions.  She  felt 
sure  Mr.  Andrews  had  not  seen  the  purple  shade  of 
Mr.  McKenzie's  complexion. 

"Melinda  has  no  gift,"  said  Mr.  Andrews.  "I 
have  tried  her  more  than  once,  but  she  can't  carve." 

"  Then  let  me  try,"  cried  Missy,  springing  up. 
"You'll  see  /have  a  gift." 

"Missy  !"  murmured  her  mother,  deprecatingly,  at 


A  MISOGYNIST.  255 

this  boldness.  She  evidently  had  not  seen  the  state 
the  guest  was  in. 

"Mamma,"  cried  Missy,  "you  know  I've  had  to 
carve,  and  make  tea,  and  do  a  hundred  things  that 
didn't  belong  to  me,  ever  since  I  was  twelve  years  old, 
and  now  you  blame  me  for  wanting  to  show  off  my 
accomplishments,  when  I'm  quite  of  a  proper  age  to 
display  them.  I've  been  imposed  on  by  the  family  all 
my  life,  and  now — the  ingratitude  of  republics." 

As  Missy  finished  her  speech,  she  stood  by  Mr. 
Andrews,  who  had  reluctantly  got  up,  and  was  glanc 
ing  rather  sternly  at  his  friend. 

But  the  friend  did  not  look  at  him,  he  was  gazing 
bewildered  at  Missy.  The  familiarity  and  complete 
at-home-ness  of  the  whole  party  made  him  doubt  his 
senses.  It  was  bad  enough  to  see  the  women  so  at 
ease,  though  he  could  believe  anything  of  them.  But 
Andrews  evidently  liked  it,  and  was  pleased  with  all 
the  liberties  they  took.  It  was  impossible  to  account 
for  the  state  of  things  by  any  theory  but  that  of  brain 
disorder.  How  he  got  through  the  rest  of  the  dinner, 
Missy  never  quite  knew.  He  had  no  one  to  pour  out 
glasses  of  water  for  him,  and  put  the  wine  within 
reach?  for  she  quite  washed  her  hands  of  him  and 
sent  Gabrielle  to  take  her  place,  while  Mr.  Andrews 
took  Gabrielle's  ;  and  Missy  remained  to  carve.  When 
they  came  out  from  the  dinner-table,  Mrs.  Varian 
went  up  stairs,  and  Missy  went  into  the  parlor  to 
gather  up  some  of  her  aunt's  things,'  of  which  there 
were  always  plenty  to  gather  up.  The  two  gentlemen 
went  on  the  piazza.  She  heard  them  talking  as  they 
sat  down  beside  the  window,  and  prepared  to  smoke. 

"  I  must  say,  Andrews — " 


256  A  MISOGYNIST. 

"Yes." 

"That — well.  I  was  a  little  taken  aback  to  find 
things — so — a — so — well — so  altered  with  you." 

He  was  beginning  to  breathe  freer  and  to  gain  cour 
age,  now  the  atmosphere  was  clear  of  women. 

"I  don't  quite  understand,"  returned  his  friend. 
"You  mean  I'm  looking  badly?  You  might  have 
thought  so  a  day  or  two  ago,  but  I'm  quite  myself  to 
day,  thank  heaven." 

It  seemed  to  Mr.  McKenzie  that  that  was  just 
who  he  wasn't,  but  he  only  smiled  derisively,  and  said, 
"  No  ;  I  didn'.  mean  that.  I  don't  think  you  looking 
much  amiss.  On  the  contrary,  you  seem  uncommonly 
jolly." 

"  Jolly  !" 

"  Well  for  you — that  is.  Look  here,  Andrews,  if 
there's  a  train  back  to  town  to-night,  I  guess  I'll  take 
it.  I'm  not  a  lady's  man,  you  know.  You  see  I  didn't 
have  any  idea  of  what  you  expected  of  your  friends. 
I'm  not  prepared." 

"  Prepared,  for  what  ?  We  didn't  have  a  dinner 
party,  did  we  ?  I  hope  you  don't  mind  meeting  these 
neighbors  of  mine,  who  have  been  burned  out  of  their 
own  house,  and  have  taken  shelter  for  a  few  nights  in 
mine." 

"  Neighbors,"  repeated  the  guest,  who  was  a  very 
good  fellow,  but  not  the  quickest  in  the  world. 

"  Why,  yes — from  the  house  next  door,  where  the 
fire  was.  You  knew  there  had  been  a  fire,  I  take 
it,  since  you  had  heard  about  my  accident." 

"  Yes." 

"  Well,  those  ladies,  as  I  said,  were  obliged  to  leave 
their  own  house  in  flames,  and  I  brought  them  in  here." 


A     MISOGYNIST.  257 

"  Oh  !" 

"  They  seem  to  be  very  much  obliged  to  me  for 
what  they  think  I  did  for  them  on  that  occasion,  and 
we  get  on  very  well  together." 

There  was  a  pause,  during  which  Mr.  Andrews 
lighted  his  cigar,  and  Mr.  McKenzie  appeared  to  be 
digesting  the  intelligence. 

"  All  the  same,  it  seems  a  little  queer,"  he  said,  af 
ter  a  good  deal  of  deliberation. 

"  Queer  ?  I  must  say  I  don't  see  it." 

"  Well,  considering  how  you  feel  about  such  things, 
I  mean.  I  don't  suppose  there's  any  real  objection,  if 
anybody  likes  it.  There  are  enough  of  'em  to  make  it 
proper,  I've  no  doubt." 

"  O  yes,  I  don't  think  there's  anything  improper  ; 
you  needn't  be  uneasy,  in  the  least,  McKenzie." 

There  were  a  good  many  puffs  before  the  new-comer 
spoke.  He  was  evidently  thinking  deeply. 

"  I'm  not  uneasy  about  it,  but  I  suppose  you  know 
what  people  will  be  saying.  I  know  better,  of  course  ; 
but  they'll  say  it,  all  the  same." 

"  Come,  now,  McKenzie,  who  cares  for  what  they 
say?  When  you  get  a  little  older  you  won't  mind, 
you  know." 

This  was  a  club  joke,  for  McKenzie  wasn't  very 
young.  He  had  a  way  of  turning  red,  however,  very 
youthfully,  and  did  care  what  people  said  about  him, 
if  it  had  anything  to  do  with  the  sex  opposed  to 
his. 

"Ah,  bah  !  that's  all  nonsense.  You'll  care,  I 
guess,  as  much  as  anybody,  when  you  find  what  every 
body,  these  ladies  here  into  the  bargain,  expect  of 
you."" 


258  A     MISOGYNIST. 

"  That's  your  opinion,  is  it  ?  Well,  come  now,  I'll 
set  you  at  rest.  These  ladies  are  remarkably  sensible. 
The  youngest  of  them,  who  is  the  only  one  you'd  be 
likely  to  want  me  to  marry,  has  a  great  contempt  for 
me  ;  thinks  I'm  a  brute,  and  all  that.  She's  fond  of 
the  children,  and  is  only  civil  to  me  because  I  happen 
to  be  their  father  and  her  host." 

"  Ah,  bah  !"  cried  McKenzie,  with  infinite  con 
tempt. 

"  It's  the  truth,  McKenzie.  And  I'll  tell  you  some 
thing  more  ;  she's  a  spit-fire,  and  I've  been  so  afraid  of 
her  I  haven't  been  near  the  house  all  winter." 

"You've  made  up  for  it  this  summer,  then.  No, 
Andrews,  don't  you  tell  me  any  such  stuff.  I'm  not 
so  young  as  that,  you  know." 

Andrews  laughed  a  little  comfortably,  as  he  smoked. 
"  Well,  there's  no  use  in  talking,  then.  But  it's  a  hard 
case.  You'd  better  not  let  her  know  your  suspicions." 

"Let  her  know  !  Heaven  forbid  !  No,  I  don't 
think  there's  any  danger." 

"  McKenzie,  upon  my  word,  I  believe  you're  afraid 
of  her  too." 

"  Not  in  just  the  way  you  are." 

"  She's  so  little,  she  couldn't  hurt  you." 

"Not  just  the  way  she's  hurt  you." 

"  You  don't  believe  me  yet.  Well,  now,  let  me  tell 
you  seriously.  This  young  lady  is  not  the  marrying 
kind  ;  she  is  too  sensible  by  half.  I  wouldn't  ask  her 
for  the  world.  And  you  know — well,  you  know  I'm 
not  likely  to  try  it  again  very  soon.  We  won't  talk 
any  more  about  this  ;  but  you  may  make  your  mind 
easy  on  the  subject." 


A    MISOGYNIST.  259 

Missy  heard  as  far  as  this  ;  it  wasn't  strictly  honor 
able,  but  she  did.  She  had  been  sitting  in  a  chair  by 
the  window,  the  easier  to  pick  up  a  lot  of  chessmen, 
which  were  scattered  on  the  window  sill  and  under  it. 
She  had  her  lap  full  of  the  rattling  things,  when  she  be 
came  interested  in  the  conversation  on  the  piazza.  She 
could  not  move  for  some  seconds,  being  fascinated  by 
the  sound  of  her  own  name.  Then,  when  she  wanted  to 
go,  she  was  terrified  by  the  fear  of  being  discovered  ; 
the  chessmen  made  such  a  rattling  if  she  moved  an 
inch  ;  she  felt  it  certain  that  Mr.  Andrews  would 
start  and  come  to  the  window  and  look  in  to  see  who 
was  eavesdropping,  if  he  heard  a  sound.  He  would  be 
sure  to  think  it  was  Gabrielle,  till  he  found  it  was  the 
virtuous  Missy.  How  she  trembled.  How  angry  she 
was,  and  how  ashamed.  But  after  this  last  pleasant  dec 
laration  she  started  up,  chessmen  or  no  chessmen,  and 
darted  out  of  the  room.  Mr.  Andrews  did  hear  a  noise, 
and  did  look  in,  and  did  think  it  was  Gabrielle  ;  but  he 
could  not  see  who  it  was  that  fled  ;  and  though  Missy 
heard  him  sternly  calling  the  little  girl  in  the  hall,  she 
was  not  virtuous  enough  to  go  out  and  tell  him,  over 
the  balusters,  who  had  overheard  his  flattering  i-emarks. 
This  omission  would  probably  have  rankled  in  her  con 
science  if  she  had  not  seen  Gabrielle,  from  the  window, 
come  in  at  the  front  gate  with  Jay  at  the  same  mo 
ment.  So  the  father  must  be  assured  that  the  children 
were  neither  of  them  the  offenders.  He  could  think 
what  he  pleased  of  the  servants,  that  was  no  matter  of 
hers. 

She  was  too  angry  to  go  down-stairs  again.  She 
would  have  found  it  difficult  to  say  why  she  was  so 


200  A    MISOGYNIST. 

angry.  She  knew  she  was  sensible,  she  knew  she  was 
a  spit-fire  ;  she  knew  Mr.  Andrews  did  not  mean  to 
ask  her  to  marry  him.  All  this  was  no  news  ;  he  had 
a  right  to  say  what  he  had  said,  to  an  intimate  friend. 
She  could  not  expect  to  be  considered  sacred.  Why 
shouldn't  Mr  Andrews  talk  about  her  to  Ins  friend  ? 
He  had  not  been  absolutely  disrespectful  ;  he  had  only 
mentioned  facts — a  little  jocosely  to  be  sure  ;  and  a 
woman  hates  to  be  spoken  jocosely  of  between  two 
men,  even  if  admiringly.  And  Missy  hated  to  be 
spoken  of,  at  all.  She  felt  that  she  was  sacred,  though 
she  knew  she  hadn't  any  right  to  feel  so.  Poor  thin- 
skinned  Missy  ;  it  was  so  hard  for  her  to  keep  from 
being  hurt  ;  everything  hurt  her,  she  was  so  egotisti 
cal. 

In  the  morning  it  was  a  joyful  sound  to  her  to 
hear  Michael  driving  to  the  door  for  the  early  train  ; 
it  was  comforting  to  see  the  guest  drive  away  alone, 
and  to  know  that  further  confidences  were  over  be 
tween  them  for  the  present.  Friends  !  Imagine  call 
ing  such  a  creature  your  friend,  thought  Missy,  turn 
ing  away  from  the  window. 

It  would  have  been  a  blessing  if  he  had  stayed 
away.  It  is  difficult  even  for  a  humble-minded  young 
woman  to  be  amiable  and  easy  with  a  person  who  has 
called  her  a  spit-fire  ;  it  was  almost  impossible  for 
Missy.  Going  down  to  breakfast  was  like  facing  a 
battery  ;  she  went  to  the  door  two  or  three  times  be 
fore  she  had  the  resolution  to  open  it,  and  feel  herself 
launched  upon  the  day's  embarrassments.  Once  at 
table,  Mr.  Andrews  was  so  commonplace  and  un 
conscious,  she  felt  herself  strengthened  by  his  weak- 


A     MISOGYNIST.  261 

ness.  It  was  a  great  advantage  to  know  what  he  did 
not  know.  She  knew  exactly  what  he  thought  of  her  ; 
he  did  not  know  that  she  knew  this,  nor  did  he  know 
what  she  thought  of  him  ;  Heaven  forbid  !  So  she 
could  hold  these  two  advantages  in  her  hand  and 
use  them.  The  result  was  that  she  was  a  little  shy  and 
a  little  silent,  and  weighed  hei«  words  very  carefully, 
for  a  day  or  two.  But  bah  !  when  did  ever  a  woman 
made  as  Missy  was,  do  anything  unnatural  to  her  for 
longer  than  a  day  or  two.  It  was  quite  in  character 
for  her  to  lay  out  new  parts  to  act,  but  equally  in 
character  for  her  to  throw  them  aside  impatiently,  and 
fall  back  into  her  standard  role.  She  not  (infrequently 
declared  to  herself,  I  will  be  this,  I  will  be  that,  but  she 
always  ended  by  being  Missy.  So  that  it  was  not  sur 
prising  that  when  at  last  the  house  was  ready  for  its 
occupants,  and  they  moved  bag  and  baggage  out  of 
the  Andrews'  cottage,  the  young  lady  was  as  unaffect 
edly  herself  as  if  Mr.  McKenzie  had  not  drawn  that 
unhappy  statement  from  his  friend.  Not  that  she  had 
forgotten  it,  exactly.  But  she  had  let  it  drop  into  that 
crucible  of  injuries  and  misconceptions,  an  egotistical 
mind,  and  it  was  melted  up  into  something  that  hurt 
no  longer  ;  in  fact,  even  gave  a  little  pleasure.  She  had 
been  so  natural  and  so  pleasant,  that  the  house  seemed 
dreary  to  all  the  family  but  Gabby,  when  she  was  gone. 
She  also  missed  the  excitement"  herself,  and  it  seemed 
rather  tame  the  next  morning  to  breakfast  with  Aunt 
Harriet  alone.  The  tented  field  unfits  one  for  the  pas 
toral  life  ;  she  found  herself  bored  by  the  security  and 
stupidity  of  the  day  on  which  she  was  entering.  But 
that  did  not  last  long.  She  was  in  an  hour  or  so,  too 
busy  to  be  bored. 


262  ALPIIONSINE. 


CHAPTER   XVI. 


ALPHONSINE. 


OR  the  second  day,  the  only  visitors  from  the 
cottage  were  Jay  and  Eliza.  Gabby  only 
looked  askance  at  the  house,  from  over  the 
arbor  vitae  hedge  ;  it  was  a  foregone  con 
clusion  they  would  not  be  troubled  much  by  her.  Mr. 
Andrews  had  now  begun  his  daily  journeys  to  town. 
Though  still  obliged  to  wear  his  arm  in  a  sling,  he 
was  quite  able  to  go  to  business.  No  doubt  he  had 
there  some  clerk  who  could  write  letters  for  him  as 
well  as  Missy,  though  it  is  just  possible  he  found  it 
more  amusing  to  have  her  do  it. 

June  was  now  in  full  reign.  If  Yellowcoats  were 
not  perfect  to  the  senses  now,  it  never  would  be.  The 
days  were  so  long,  the  nights  so  soft  and  moonlit,  the 
air,  night  and  day,  so  full  of  fragrance.  The  ladies 
sat  late  on  the  lawn,  by  the  beach  gate.  Even  Mrs. 
Varian  had  ventured  to  come  down,  leaning  on  her 
daughter's  arm,  and  sit,  carefully  wrapped,  and  with 
a  rug  spread  over  the  grass,  to  watch  the  beauty  of  the 
sunset.  The  second  evening  after  their  exodus  from 
his  roof,  Mr.  Andrews  found  them  so  sitting,  as  he 
strolled  down  to  the  beach  after  dinner.  The  dinner  ' 
had  been  good,  the  wine  had  been  good,  his  cigar  was 
good  ;  but  there  was  an  indefinite  something  wanted, 
a  flavor  of  companionship  and  human  interest.  lie 
looked  longingly  over  the  hedge  ;  he  wondered  if  Miss 
Rolhermel  would  remember  how  angry  she  had  been, 


ALPHONSINE.  2G3 

when  Miss  Vavian  told  him,  it  was  one  of  his  duties  to 
his  neighbor,  to  come  and  smoke  an  after-dinner  cigar 
on  the  lawn.  He  was  quite  interested  in  this  specula 
tion — how  good  was  Miss  Rotherael's  memory?  Some 
times  lie  thought  it  very  strong,  sometimes  he  won 
dered  at  its  non-existence.  As  he  never  forgot  any 
thing  himself,  and  generally  did  what  he  meant  to  do, 
Missy  was  naturally  a  puzzle  to  him.  She  evidently 
had  forgotten  about  the  observation  of  Miss  Varian, 
for  she  looked  up  with  a  very  pleasant  smile,  when  the 
grating  of  the  beach  gate  on  its  hinges,  caused  her  to 
turn  her  head.  She  pulled  forward  upon  the  rug  a 
chair  which  had  been  standing  beside  her  with  books 
and  a  shawl  upon  it.  These  she  put  on  the  bench  at 
her  feet,  and  Mr.  Andrews  took  the  chair. 

"  You  are  sitting  with  your  back  to  the  sunset,"  she 
said,  after  the  subsiding  of  the  froth  of  welcoming 
talk  among  the  little  party. 

"  Well,  so  are  you,"  he  said. 

"  But  I  have  a  reason,  and  you  haven't." 

"No  reason,  except  that  you  put  my  chair  just 
where  it  is,  and  I  didn't  dare  to  move  it." 

Missy  frowned  ;  it  reminded  her  that  she  had  heard 
it  stated  by  this  gentleman,  that  he  was  afraid  of  her. 

"  A  plague  upon  it,  what  have  I  said  now,"  he 
thought. 

"  I  am  watching  that  boat,"  went  on  Miss  Rotherrnel, 
letting  drop  his  remark  about  the  chair,  as  if  it  had 
not  been  worth  answering.  "  Do  you  see  how  she  is 
shilly-shallying  there  in  the  mouth  of  the  harbor? 
There  is  a  good  breeze  to  bring  her  in,  and  she  will 
lose  it,  if  she  doesn't  look  out.  A  little  while  ago  she 
ran  in — crept  along  the  Neck  a  way,  then  stood  out 


264  ALPUONSINE. 

again,  and  now,  nobody  can  guess  what  she  means  to 
do,  except  that  she  evidently  doesn't  want  to  go  away. 
I  have  been  watching  her  since  five  o'clock." 

"  Whose  boat  is  it?"  asked  Mr.  Andrews.  "Does 
she  belong  about  here  ?" 

"  No,  I  am  sure  not  ;  I  think  I  know  all  the  boats 
that  belong  in  the  harbor,  and  she  has  an  odd,  unfa 
miliar  look." 

"Let's  have  a  look  at  her  through  my  glass,"  said 
Mr.  Andrews  ;  and  he  got  up  and  went  back  to  his 
boat-house,  returning  with  a  telescope.  "This  will 
show  us  the  whites  of  our  enemy's  eyes,"  he  said,  ad 
justing  it  on  its  stand,  by  the  beach  gate.  Missy  got 
up  eagerly,  and  went  up  to  it.  It  was  some  moments 
before  she  got  it  fitted  to  her  eye,  and  then  a  moment 
more  before  she  found  her  craft. 

"  Ah  !  here  she  is,"  she  cried.  "  It's  a  capital 
glass.  It's  almost  like  boarding  her  ;  it  really  is  un 
canny.  There  is  a  woman  on  board,  and  two  men  ; 
and  see — they  have  a  glass  !  And — well,  I  could 
affirm  they  are  looking  at  us.  See,  see,  Mr.  Andrews ! 
Oh,  what  a  funny  effect  !  It  is  as  if  we  were  staring 
at  each  other  across  a  parquet." 

"  Well,"  said  Mr.  Andrews,  taking  her  place  at  the 
glass,  "it  is  as  if  the  opposite  box  didn't  like  being 
stared  at,  and  were  pulling  down  their  curtains,  and 
putting  their  fans  before  their  faces.  Upon  my  word, 
they  have  gone  about,  and  are  getting  out  of  reach  of 
our  glass,  just  as  fast  as  they  can."  i 

All  the  party  were  now  as  much  interested  as  Missy 
had  been.  Miss  Varian  clamored  to  be  told  exactly 
what  course  the  little  vessel  took  ;  Goneril,  who  hap 
pened  to  be  behind  her  chair,  had  some  unnecessary 


ALPHONSINE.  265 

comment  to  offer.  Mrs.  Varian  even  watched  her 
breathlessly. 

"It  is  very  odd,"  said  Missy;  "from  the  moment 
we  put  up  the  glass,  they  made  off.  Look  !  they  are 
half  way  across  to  Cooper's  Bluff.  In  five  minutes 
they  will  be  out  of  sight." 

It  was  quite  true.  In  less  than  five  minutes  the 
little  sail  had  shot  out  of  range  of  the  glasses  and  eyes 
upon  the  Varian  lawn,  and  all  that  could  follow  it  was 
very  vague  conjecture.  It  occupied  the  thoughts  of 
the  little  party  till  the  sunset  took  its  place,  and  then, 
the  apprehension  of  dew  and  dampness  for  Mrs.  Var 
ian,  and  then  the  moving  up  to  the  house.  Mr.  An 
drews  carried  some  shawls  and  a  book  or  two,  and 
stopped  at  the  door  of  the  summer  parlor,  as  the  others 
went  in.  He  consented,  not  reluctantly  by  any  means, 
to  go  in  with  them. 

"  For  I  assure  you,"  he  said,  as  he  entered,  "  I  find 
it  quite  dismal  at  home  since  you  all  went  away." 

Miss  Varian  seemed  to  take  this  as  a  personal  trib 
ute,  and  made  her  thanks.  "  I  had  supposed,"  she 
added,  "  that  Jay  was  the  only  one  who  felt  it  very 
much  ;  but  I'm  glad  to  know  you  shared  his  amiable 
sentiments." 

"  By  the  way,  where  is  he  to-night  ?"  asked  Missy, 
putting  a  shade  on  the  lamp. 

"  The  children  were  bribed  to  go  to  bed  very  early 
to-night.  Eliza  asked  permission  to  go  home  this  even 
ing,  and  stay  till  morning  ;  and  so,  I  suppose,  they 
were  persuaded  to  be  sleepy  early  to  suit  her." 

Late  that  evening,  as  Missy  looked  out,  before 
shutting  her  window  for  the  night,  she  thought  again 
of  the  little  vessel  that  had  excited  her  curiosity.  She 


268  ALPHONSINE. 

rather  wondered  that  she  had  bestowed  so  much  specu 
lation  upon  it ;  but  again,  when  she  awoke  in  the  night, 
she  found  herself  thinking  of  it,  and  wondering  how 
there  happened  to  be  a  woman  in  tho  party.  Oyster- 
men  and  fishermen  do  not  burden  themselves  with 
women  when  they  go  out  into  the  Sound  ;  and  this 
little  vessel  had  not  the  look  of  a  pleasure  boat.  She 
had  rather  a  restless  night,  waking  again  and  again  ; 
she  heard  all  sorts  of  sounds.  Once  the  dog  at  the 
barn  began  to  bark,  but  stopped  shortly  after  one 
sharp  snarl.  At  another  time,  she  was  so  sure  she 
heard  a  noise  upon  the  beach,  that  she  got  up  and 
opened  the  window  and  looked  out.  The  night  was 
dark — no  moon,  and  but  faint  light  of  stars.  A  light 
fog  had  gathered  over  the  water.  She  listened  long  ; 
at  one  moment  she  was  certain  she  heard  the  voice  of 
a  child,  crying  ;  but  it  was  only  once,  and  for  the  space 
of  a  moment.  And  then  all  was  silent.  The  wind 
among  the  trees,  and  the  washing  of  the  tide  upon  the 
shore  she  still  could  hear,  but  could  hear  nothing  else. 
She  went  back  to  bed,  feeling  ashamed  of  herself.  It 
was  like  Aunt  Harriet,  who  heard  robbers  and  assas 
sins  all  night  long,  and  called  up  Goneril  to  listen, 
whenever  a  bough  swayed  against  a  neighboring 
bough,  or  a  nut  dropped  from  a  tree. 

"  At  any  rate,  I  won't  tell  of  it  at  breakfast," 
thought  the  young  lady,  determinately,  putting  her 
face  down  on  her  pillow.  By  and  by  she  started  up, 
not  having  been  able  to  "  boss"  her  thoughts,  and  get 
asleep.  That  was  not  imagination,  whatever  the 
child's  cry  and  the  dog's  bark  had  been.  There  was  a 
sound  of  oars,  growing  gradually  fainter  as  she  lis 
tened.  Well,  why  shouldn't  there  be  ?  Men  often  had 


ALPHONSINE.  267 

to  go  off  to  their  sloops,  to  be  ready  for  an  early  start 
when  the   wind  served  ;  maybe   it    was   almost   day 
break.     But  no,  as  she  reasoned,  the  clock  struck  two. 
On  such  a  dark  night,  it  was  unusual,  at  such  an  hour 
as  this,  for  any  one  to  be  rowing  out  from  shore.     If 
there  had  been  a  man  in   the  house,  she   would  have 
risked  ridicule,  and  roused  him  to  go  out  and  see  that 
all  was  right.     But  the  men  slept  at  the  stable — there 
was  absurdity,  and  a  little  impropriety,  in  her  going  out 
alone  at  such  an  hour  to  call  the  men.     It  would  rouse 
Mrs.  Varian,  no  doubt,  and  give  her  a  sleepless  night. 
And  as  for  Miss  Varian,  it  would  furnish  her  a  weapon 
which    would    never    wear   out,  if,  as    was   probable, 
nothing  should  be  found  out  of  order  about  the  place, 
or  on  the  beach.     No  one  likes  to  be  laughed  at  ;  no 
one  less  than  Miss  Rothermel.     She  shut  the  window 
again,  and   resolutely  lay  down   to  sleep.     But  sleep 
refused  to  come.     It  is  impossible  to   say   what   she 
feared  ;  but  she  seemed  to  have  entered  into  a  cloud 
of   apprehension,    vague   as   it   was    bewildering.     It 
was  useless   to  reason   with  herself,   she   was   simply 
frightened,  and   she  should  never  dare  to  scorn  Aunt 
Harriet  again.     Was   this  the  way  the  poor  woman 
felt  every  night  after  the  household  were  all  at  rest  ? 
Well,  it  was  very   unpleasant,  and   she  wasn't  to  be 
blamed    for   waking   Goneril  ;  if    Missy   hadn't   been 
ashamed,  she'd  have  waked  somebody. 

It  was  not  till  dawn  fairly  came  that  she  was  able 
to  go  to  sleep.  From  this  sleep  she  was  confusedly 
wakened  by  a  hurried  knock  at  her  door.  The  sun 
was  streaming  into  the  room.  She  felt  as  if  she 
hadn't  been  asleep  at  all,  and  yet  the  misgivings  of 
the  night  seemed  endlessly  far  off  in  time. 


268  ALPHONSINE. 

11  Well,  what  is  it  ?"  she  answered,  sitting  up  and 
pushing  back  her  pillow,  and  feeling  rather  cross,  it 
must  be  said. 

"  They've  sent  over  from  the  other  house  to  know 
if  Jay  is  here,"  said  the  waitress,  out  of  breath,  show 
ing  she  had  run  up-stairs  very  fast. 

"  Ileref"  cried  Missy,  springing  to  the  door  and 
opening  it.  "  How  should  he  be  here?  Do  you  mean 
to  say  they  cannot  find  him?" 

"  Oh,"  gasped  Ann,  putting  both  hands  on  her 
heart,  "  Eliza's  in  a  dreadful  way.  She's  just  got  in 
from  spending  the  night  at  home,  and  went  up  to  the 
nursery  to  dress  the  children,  and  opened  the  door 
softly,  and  there  was  Jay's  crib  empty,  but  Gabby 
sound  asleep." 

"  He'd  gone  into  his  father's  room,  no  doubt,"  said 
Missy,  pale  and  trembling. 

"  No,"  cried  the  woman,  "  she  ran  right  off  to  Mr. 
Andrews'  door,  and  he  called  out  the  child  wasn't 
there,  and  in  a  terrible  fright,  she  came  over  here. 
When  I  told  her  no,  I  knew  he  wasn't,  she  flew  back." 

"  Go  there,  quick,  and  tell  me  if  they  find  him  in 
the  kitchen  or  dining-room  ;  maybe  he  missed  Eliza 
and  crept  down-stairs  and  fell  asleep  on  the  sofa  in  the 
parlor." 

This  mission  suited  Ann  exactly  ;  she  ran  as  her 
mistress  bade  her,  but  failed  to  come  back  with  news. 
Missy  dressed  in  a  moment  of  time.  She  saw  it  all  ; 
she  knew  what  she  had  heard  in  the  night  ;  she  knew 
what  the  boat  had  meant  hovering  about  the  har 
bor,  shooting  out  of  sight.  She  knew  what  was  the 
explanation  of  the  fire,  for  which  no  one  had  ever  been 
able  satisfactorily  to  account.  She  began  to  realize 


ALPHONSINE.  269 

what  it  was  to  have  an  enemy.  The  thought  of  that 
child's  cry,  so  suddenly  smothered  last  night,  sent  a 
pang  through  her.  She  scarcely  knew  how  she  got  her 
clothes  on  ;  her  hands  shook  as  with  an  amie.  When 

'  O 

it  came  to  opening  the  front  door  to  let  herself  out 
she  found  they  were  as  weak  as  if  she  had  had  a  fever. 
Half-way  across  the  lawn  she  met  Ann,  who  shook  her 
head  and  wrung  her  hands,  and  turned  back,  and 
followed  her.  Ann  liked  to  be  in  the  proscenium  box 
when  there  was  a  tragedy  on  the  boards  ;  it  would  be 
dull  laying  the  breakfast  table  when  all  this  ex 
citement  was  going  on  next  door  (though  a  trifle 
more  useful).  She  ran  after  her  mistress,  who  did  not 
stop  till  she  reached  the  gate  that  led  into  the  An 
drews'  yard.  There  she  found  herself  face  to  face 
with  Mr.  Andrews,  who  had  come  hurriedly  down  the 
path  with/the  confused  air  of  one  who  had  been  waked 
from  sleep  by  a  sudden  and  stunning  blow. 

"  What  does  it  mean,"  he  said  to  her,  as  she  came 
into  the  gate. 

"  You  haven't  found  him  ?"  she  said,  as  they  went 
together  towards  the  house.  "  Where  are  his  clothes 
— what  has  been  taken — what  doors  were  open  ?" 

"  His  clothes  are  left — only  a  blanket  from  the  bed 
is  missing — no  doors  were  open — a  ladder  was  against 
the  nursery  window.  I  am  bewildered.  I  don't  know 
what  it  means  at  all." 

"  It  means  Alphonsine,"  cried  Missy,  leaning  against 
the  door  for  support.  "  It  means  revenge  and  a 
reward.  The  boat  we  watched  last  night — the  sounds 
I  heard  in  the  night — ah,  ah,  don't  let  us  waste  a  mo 
ment.  It  was  two  o'clock  when  I  heard  the  sound  of 
oars — it  is  seven  now — and  a  good  breeze  blowing. 


270  ALPHONSINE. 

Oh,  my  poor  little  Jay,  where   have   they  got  you  by 
this  time  !" 

"  You  suspect  that  woman,"  said  the  father,  "  that 
I  sent  away  last  autumn?  But  what  motive — what 
provocation — what  could  have  prompted  such  an  act  ? 
I  confess  I  cannot  follow  you — " 

"  Believe  me,  and  don't  waste  a  moment,"  cried 
Missy.  "  Rouse  the  village,  ring  the  bells,  get  out  your 
boat,  send  for  the  Roncevalles,  telegraph  to  town  to 
the  police.  The  Roncevalles  will  take  their  yacht, 
she  came  in  yesterday — you  know  she's  fast.  Why  do 
you  look  so  doubtful  ?  Mr.  Andrews,  I  love  him  as  well 
as  you  do.  I  am  sorry  for  you,  but  I  shall  hate  you  if 
you  are  not  quick.  Every  moment  that  you  doubt  me 
is  a  moment  lost.  Jay  is  in  the  hands  of  wicked  peo 
ple.  You  will  never  see  him  again,  if  you  are  not 
prompt.  Those  creatures  have  stolen  him — they  will 
board  some  French  ship  outward  bound  ;  don't  look  for 
motive — they  know  you  have  money — they  want  re 
venge  for  being  sent  away.  Oh,  my  little  boy  !  What 
have  I  brought  upon  you  !" 

And  with  a  burst  of  tears,  Missy  hid  her  face.  The 
poor  man  groaned  and  turned  away.  He  walked  to 
the  door  and  back,  as  if  trying  to  steady  his  brain  and 
to  think. 

Missy  recovered  herself  in  a  moment,  and  making  a 
step  forward,  with  a  passionate  gesture  of  the  hands, 
"  Do  something,"  she  cried.  "  Do  not,  do  not  waste  a 
moment." 

Then,  seeing  he  still  had  not  admitted  her  theory, 
but  was  weighing  it  with  a  troubled  mind,  she  ex 
claimed,  "  Send  in  a  hundred  different  directions  if  you 
will,  but  send  ray  way  first.  You  have  no  other  plan; 


ALPHONSINE.  271 

follow  mine  till  something  better  comes  before  you  ; 
it  is  better  to  be  doing  something  than  nothing." 

"  You  are  right,"  he  said,  with  sudden  resolution, 
starting  towards  the  library  door — "Send  a  woman 
over  to  Captain  Perkins  ;  tell  Michael  to  saddle 
Jenny." 

From  that  moment  there  was  no  lack  of  speed  in 
carrying  on  the  search.  In  half  an  hour,  the  bells  were 
ringing  in  the  village  steeples ;  the  telegraph  wire 
was  talking  hotly  into  the  Police  Headquarters  of  the 
city  ;  men  and  boys  were  swarming  on  the  beach.  The 
good  yacht  Ilia,  which  had  loafed  in  yesterday,  with 
no  intention  but  to  spend  a  few  hours  in  harbor,  was 
ready  at  a  moment's  warning.  In  a  hasty  conclave  of 
half  a  dozen  gentlemen,  it  had  been  decided  that  Miss 
Rothermel's  suspicions  were  quite  worth  acting  upon, 
faute  de  mieux.  There  were  others  who  had  seen  the 
mysterious  little  craft  ;  and  one  man  who  had  come 
upon  a  foreign-looking  group  encamped  upon  a  lonely 
point  of  the  Neck,  the  day  before.  There  were  two 
men  and  a  woman  in  the  party,  and  they  had  evidently 
shunned  observation.  There  were  foot-marks  upon 
the  sand,  a  little  below  the  Andrews'  boat-house,  and 
a  track  that  the  keel  of  a  boat  had  made  when  pushed 
off,  in  the  falling  tide.  It  was  more  than  probable 
that  the  child  had  been  stolen  with  a  view  to  the 
largest  reward,  and  that  the  matter  had  been  well  ar 
ranged  ;  and  Miss  Rothermel's  idea,  that  out  on  the 
Sound  some  homeward-bound  French  ship  was  expect 
ed  to  come  along,  which  would  take  them  on  board,  and 
put  them  beyond  reach  of  pursuit  for  many  weeks  at 
least,  found  favor.  There  was,  of  course,  a  possibility  of 
their  having  failed  to  meet  their  ship,  or  of  their  not 


272  ALPHONSINE. 

Laving  such  a  plan  ;  and  all  the  neighborhood  of  the 
Necks,  and  the  shores  along  the  Sound  must  be  instantly 
searched  ;  it  was  even  possible  that  their  plan  had  been 
to  secrete  him  in  the  city.  Jay  had  been  a  well-known 
and  rather  favorite  little  person  in  the  neighborhood — 
Mr.  Andrews  was  understood  to  be  rich — the  people 
were  naturally  kind-hearted — the  occurrence  was  quite 
beyond  the  ordinary;  in  short,  it  was  a  day  unparalleled 
in  Yellowcoats  for  excited  feeling.  Men  were  scouring 
the  woods  on  horseback  and  on  foot,  and  patrolling  the 
shores  in  boats  ;  mothers  were  leaving,  equally,  wash- 
tubs  and  piano-fortes,  to  hug  closer  their  own  children 
and  mourn  over  the  dangers  of  poor  Jay,  and  listen 
for  the  latest  news.  People  drove  aimlessly  about  from 
house  to  house  ;  all  day  long  there  were  groups  on  the 
steamboat  wharf,  and  along  the  shore  that  led  to  Mr. 
Andrews'  house  ;  the  telegraph  office  was  besieged. 
Little  work  was  done.  I  almost  think  there  was  no 
dinner  cooked  in  more  houses  than  the  Andrews'  and 
the  Varians'. 

When  the  Ilia  sailed  gallantly  out  of  the  mouth  of 
the  harbor,  the  foremost  and  fastest  of  all  the  pursu 
ing  craft,  people  cheered  and  wept,  and  prayed  for  the 
continuance  of  the  stiff  breeze  that  had  been  blowing 
since  day-break.  But  the  stiff  breeze  was  a  two- 
edged  sword  that  cut  both  ways  ;  while  it  helped  the 
pursuers,  it  helped  the  pursued. 

At  first,  it  was  decided  Mr.  Andrews  should  not  go 
on  the  yacht,  but  should  be  on  the  spot  to  direct,  and 
order  the  search  in  different  quarters.  A  hastily 
sworn-in  officer  was  taken  on  board,  and  several  gentle 
men  who  had  full  authority  to  act  for  him.  But 
when  the  last  boat  load  was  about  to  push  off,  a  cer- 


ALPHON8INS.  273 

tain  fierce  impatience  seemed  to  seize  him.  He  had 
taken  up  Missy's  theory,  it  seemed,  at  last,  and  felt 
that  he  could  not  let  them  go  without  him.  He  sig 
nalled  them  to  wait,  and  hurried  across  the  lawn  to 
Missy,  who  stood  with  a  rigid  face,  watching  the 
vessel's  sails  filling  with  the  breeze. 

"I  believre  I'm  going  with  them,"  he  said,  "there 
is  nothing  I  can  do  here.  If  anything  comes  up,  you 
will  decide.  The  fact  is,  I  can't  stand  it,  all  day  in 
suspense." 

"  Then  don't  keep  the  boat  waiting,"  said  Missy, 
with  ungraciousness.  The  truth  was,  she  wanted  to 
go  so  wildly  herself,  she  hated  him  for  being  able  to 
do  what  she  could  not.  What  was  the  suspense  more 
to  him  than  to  her,  she  thought.  She  must  count  all 
these  dreadful  hours  at  home,  while  he  could  feel  he 
was  nearer,  every  moment,  to  some  certainty,  good  or 
bad,  which  must  be  so  many  hours  further  off  from 
her.  In  a  moment  more  he  had  sprung  aboard  the 
little  boat,  and  they  were  off. 

All  this  while  Gabrielle  had  been  wandering  about, 
silent  and  eager.  At  first  she  had  been  questioned, 
with  few  results,  as  to  her  knowledge  of  the  events  of 
the  night.  She  had  denied,  generally,  having  been 
awake  or  knowing  anything  till  Eliza  had  waked  her 
up  in  her  fright  at  finding  Jay's  crib  empty.  T*hen, 
in  the  hurry  and  panic,  she  had  dropped  out  of  notice. 
Missy  found  her  standing  beside  her  on  the  lawn, 
watching  the  boat  go  off.  A  sudden  doubt  came  into 
Missy's  mind  as  she  saw  the  child's  keen,  silent  face. 

"  What  was  Alphonsine's  last  name  ?"  she  said  to 
her,  without  preface. 
12* 


274  ALPHONSINE. 

"  Gatineau,"  she  answered,  promptly. 

"  When  did  you  see  her  last  ?"  she  asked,  looking 
at  her  narrowly. 

"I — I — don't  know — "  faltered  the  child,  turning 
her  eyes  away. 

"  Yes,  you  do  know,  Gabby,"  said  Missy,  firmly. 
"  Tell  me  quickly.  Did  you  see  her  yesterday  ?" 

"  I  promised  not  to  tell,"  returned  the  child, 
faintly. 

"  Come  into  the  house  with  me,"  said  Missy,  taking 
her  by  the  hand  with  no  uncertain  grasp.  "  I  want  to 
talk  to  you  about  all  this." 

There  were  groups  of  people  upon  the  lawn,  and 
Missy  felt  afraid  to  trust  herself  to  talk  before  them, 
afraid,  also,  that  the  presence  of  strangers  would 
weaken  her  power  over  the  child,  who  followed  her 
unwillingly  into  the  house.  When  there,  she  shut  the 
door  upon  them,  and  sat  down,  drawing  Gabrielle 
towards  her. 

"  We  all  feel  very  unhappy  about  your  little 
brother,"  she  said,  looking  directly  into  the  oblique 
eyes  of  Gabrielle  ;  "  this  is  a  terrible  day  for  your 
father  and  for  us  all." 

"  They  won't  hurt  him,"  faltered  the  child,  uneasily. 

.  "  They  say  they  won't,  but  they  may.     They  tell 

lies,  those  French  people.     Alphonsine  told  lots  of  lies 

when  she  was  here.     We  can't  believe  her,  even  if  she 

says  she  won't  hurt  Jay." 

"  I  know  she  won't,"  said  Gabrielle. 

"  We'd  give  anything  to  get  him  back,"  said  Missy. 
"Tell  me  all  that  happened;  you  shall  not  be  pun 
ished." 

"  I  promised  not,"  said  the  child,  looking  down, 


ALPHONSINE.  275 

and  glancing  towards  the  clock  uncomfortably.  Missy 
caught  the  direction  of  her  glance. 

"  Why  do  you  look  at  the  clock  ?"  she  asked. 

Gabrielle  hung  her  head  lower  than  before,  and 
looked  convicted. 

"  When  did  she  tell  you  you  might  tell  ?"  de 
manded  Missy,  with  keen  sagacity. 

"Not  till  after  ten  o'clock,"  murmured  the  girl. 

Missy's  heart  sank  ;  it  was  just  forty-five  minutes 
past  eight  o'clock.  They  had  felt  sure  of  safety  if  the 
child  could  be  kept  silent  for  that  length  of  time,  and 
had  no  doubt  set  an  outside  limit  to  her  silence. 

"  You  are  quite  right,"  said  Missy,  "  in  not  break 
ing  your  promise.  "  I  suppose  she  thought  you  would 
be  punished  to  make  you  tell,  and  she  told  you  you 
must  hold  out  till  ten  ?" 

Gabrielle  nodded,  perplexed  at  this  reading  of  her 
mind. 

"  Always  keep  your  word,  even  to  wicked  people," 
said  Missy,  getting  up  and  smoothing  out  some  papers 
that  were  lying  open  on  the  table.  "  You  know  7"think 
Alphonsine  is  a  wicked  woman,  but  you  must  keep 
your  word  to  her  all  the  same,  you  know." 

Gabrielle  was  quite  reassured  by  this,  and  drew  a 
freer  breath. 

"  She  told  me  I  might  tell  after  ten  o'clock  if  I 
couldn't  help  it,  and  she'd  give  me — the — the — " 

"  I  understand,"  said  Missy,  "  the  reward  she 
offered.  Well,  now,  I'll  go  and  see  about  some  things 
up-stairs,  and  you  can  come  with  me  and  put  my  rib 
bon  box  in  order.  And  at  ten  o'clock  I'll  call  you  to 
come  and  tell  me  all  about  it." 

Gabrielle  brightened.      She  had  rarely  had  access 


276  ALPHONSINE. 

to  Missy's  sashes  and  ribbons  ;  she  longed  to  get  at 
them,  even  at  this  agitated  moment.  While  she  was 
shut  in  Missy's  room  in  this  congenial  occupation, 
Missy  went  down  stairs  and  rapidly  turned  forward  an 
hour  the  hands  of  the  hall  and  parlor  clocks  ;  then 
waiting  fifteen  minutes  in  breathless  suspense,  called 
up  to  Gabrielle  to  come  to  her.  She  was  sure  the  child 
would  not  have  any  correct  estimate  of  time,  and  saw 
her  glance  without  surprise  at  the  clock  on  the  man 
telpiece,  which  pointed  at  ten. 

"  Now,  I  suppose  you  may  tell  me  all  about  it,"  she 
said,  trying  to  speak  very  indifferently.  "Tell  me 
when  you  first  saw  Alphonsine." 

"  Day  before  yesterday,"  she  said.  "  After  dinner, 
when  papa  had  taken  Jay  to  drive,  and  left  me  all 
alone." 

"Oh,  where  were  you?" 

"  I  was  down  on  the  beach  below  the  cedars.  I 
heard  somebody  call  me  softly  up  on  the  bank,  and  I 
looked  up  and  saw  Alphonsine  beckoning  to  me.  So  I 
went  up,  and  she  took  me  behind  the  bushes  and  talked 
to  me." 

There  was  a  long  pause. 

"  Well,"  said  Missy,  trying  to  smooth  out  her  voice 
as  she  smoothed  out  the  creases  in  a  piece  of  work  she 
had  in  her  hand.  "  Well,  what  did  she  say  ?" 

"  I  don't  know,"  murmured  Gabby,  getting  uneasy, 
and  twisting  around  on  her  heels,  and  getting  out  of 
range  of  her  interlocutor's  eyes.  "I  don't  know — all 
sorts  of  things." 

"  Oh,  I  suppose  she  talked  about  me,  and  asked 
whether  your  papa  came  to  our  house  often,  and  all 
that." 


ALPHONSINE.  277 

Gabby  gave  her  a  doubtful,  sharp  look. 

"  Ye — es,"  she  said. 

"And  you  told  her  about  that,  and  then  she 
said—?  " 

Gabby,  relieved  to  have  this  most  delicate  part  of 
the  conversation  so  passed  over,  went  on  to  state  that 
Alphonsine  had  coaxed  her  to  tell  her  all  about  Eliza, 
the  nurse,  and  when  Eliza  went  out,  and  all  about  the 
ways  of  the  other  servants  in  the  house.  And  when  she 
knew  that  Eliza  was  going  out  to  stay  away  till  morn 
ing,  the  next  night,  she  had  told  Gabby  she  had  a  great 
secret  to  tell  her,  and  made  her  promise  to  keep  it.  She 
then  told  her,  Jay  was  the  cause  of  all  her  (Gabrielle's) 
trouble,  and  that  if  he  went  away  she  wouldn't  be 
snubbed  so,  and  her  papa  would  give  her  plenty  of 
money  and  buy  jewelry  for  her,  instead  of  laying  it  all 
up,  as  he  did  now,  for  Jay.  This  part  of  her  communi 
cation  Gabby  made  with  much  shame-facedness,  and 
many  oblique  looks  at  her  companion.  This  latter  was 
discreet,  however,  and  helped  the  narrative  on  with 
many  little  questions  which  took  off  the  edge  of  its  bad 
ness.  Gabby  admitted  that  Alphonsine  had  given  her  a 
ring  at  this  stage  of  the  interview,  and  that  she  had  said 
she  was  going  to  give  her  something  else,  if  she  did  what 
she  asked  of  her.  Then  she  said  she  had  been  getting 
married  to  a  German  sea-captain,  who  was  rich,  and 
wanted  a  little  boy.  And  she  liked  Jay,  and  was  go 
ing  to  see  if  she  couldn't  get  Jay  to  come  away  and 
live  with  her.  But,  of  course,  Jay  mustn't  know  any 
thing  about  it,  for  he  was  so  little  he  would  tell  it  all 
to  his  papa,  and  that  would  spoil  everything.  She 
would  come  that  next  night,  after  Eliza  had  gone  out, 
and  talk  to  Jay  herself  about  it.  But  Gabby  must 


278  ALPI10NSINE. 

promise  to  get  up  softly  as  soon  as  Eliza  went  away, 
and  unfasten  the  window  that  opened  on  the  shed,  if  it 
should  be  shut,  and  also  promise  to  lie  quite  still,  and 
not  speak  till  she  was  spoken  to,  if  she  heard  her  come. 
Then,  at  that  visit,  she  would  bring  her  a  locket  and  a 
fine  sash,  which  she  had  bought  for  her.  And  then,  with 
many  flattering  words,  she  sent  her  away,  staying  her 
self  till  some  one  came  for  her  in  a  boat,  she  said. 

All  the  next  day,  Gabrielle  felt  very  important, 
having  this  secret,  and  knowing  what  a  visitor  they 
were  going  to  have  in  the  night.  She  watched  Eliza 
go  off  that  evening  with  much  satisfaction.  It  grew 
dark,  and  very  soon  Jay  was  fast  asleep,  and  she  got 
up  and  opened  the  window,  and  there  lay  awake  and 
waited  for  Alphonsine.  Hours  passed.  She  heard  her 
father  come  in  and  go  to  his  room,  and  all  the  house  shut 
up.  Then  she  thought  Alphonsine  wasn't  coming,  and 
had  been  laughing  at  her.  So  she  went  to  sleep  at  last 
and  didn't  know  anything  more  till  she  heard  Jay  make 
a  cry,  and  then  heard  somebody  hush  him  up  and  put 
something  over  his  mouth.  She  sat  up  in  bed  and  saw, 
by  a  light  put  in  one  corner,  and  shaded,  that  Alphon 
sine  had  Jay  in  her  arms,  bundled  up  in  a  blanket,  and 
that  somebody  was  waiting  half-way  in  at  the  window. 
This  was  a  man,  Gabrielle  knew  when  she  saw  Alphon 
sine  hurry  to  the  window  and  put  Jay  in  his  arms,  for 
he  spoke  German  in  a  low,  hoarse,  man's  voice.  She 
was  frightened  at  seeing  Jay  taken  away  out  into  the 
darkness  in  a  strange  man's  arras,  and  she  began  to 
cry.  Alphonsine  uttered  a  bad  word,  and  told  the 
man  to  go  on,  she  must  settle  this  stupid.  She  spoke 
in  German,  but  Gabrielle  knew  German.  Then  she 
came  back  to  Gabrielle,  and  was  very  coaxing,  thrust- 


ALPHONSINE.  279 

ing  into  her  hand  the  package  she  had  promised,  but 
telling  her  she  had  a  pair  of  bracelets  that  matched  the 
locket,  that  she  had  meant  to  bring  her,  but  would  send 
her,  if  she  held  her  tongue  until  after  ten  in  the  morn 
ing. 

"  No  matter  what  they  do  to  you,"  she  said,  "hold 
your  tongue  till  then,  and  you  will  never  need  be  sorry. 
I  shall  know,  for  I  have  somebody  here  that  tells  me 
all  about  what's  going  on.  And  if  I  hear  you  haven't 
told,  you'll  have  your  bracelets  by  express  on  Thurs 
day.  You  see  I  keep  my  promise  ;  look  at  the  locket, 
and  see  if  it  isn't  beautiful,  and  the  bracelets  are  worth 
ten  of  it." 

Then,  with  hurried  words  of  caution,  she  left  her — 
only  looking  back  to  say,  "  Tell  Madamoiselle  next 
door  if  she  finds  out  I  have  been  here,  that  I  have  not 
forgotten  her.  I  would  do  a  good  deal  for  the  love  of 
her." 

The  window  Gabrielle  closed,  because  she  was  a 
little  afraid,  but  the  lamp  she  put  out  in  obedience  to 
Alphonsine's  injunction,  after  she  had  looked  at  the 
locket,  which  was  very  big,  and  very  gay  with  garnets. 
The  sash,  too,  was  quite  magnificent,  showing  that  Al- 
phonsine  was  playing  for  high  stakes.  She  had  wrapped 
these  two  treasm-es  up,  and,  together  with  the  ring,  they 
were  tightly  concealed  in  the  bosom  of  her  dress.  She 
had  not  had  time  to  admire  them  as  they  deserved, 
not  having  dared  to  bring  them  out  till  she  should  be 
alone.  Now,  however,  she  yielded  very  willingly  to 
Missy's  invitation  to  unbutton  her  dress,  and  brought 
them  to  the  light.  Missy  took  them  with  trembling 
hands  ;  they  were  the  price  of  blood,  and  she  almost 
shuddered  at  the  touch  of  the  little  monster  who 


280  ALPIIONSINE. 

pressed  close  to  her  to  gaze  with  delight  upon  her 
treasures.  Not  one  word  in  the  narrative  had  indicated 
remorse,  or  sorrow  for  being  parted  from  her  little 
brother.  The  servants,  and  the  children  in  the  street, 
seemed  to  have  more  feeling.  After  Missy  had  looked  at 
the  showy  French  locket,  she  unwrapped  the  sash,  think 
ing,  as  she  did  so,  how  much  reliance  could  be  placed  on 
the  woman's  statement  that  she  was  married  to  a 
German  sea-captain.  The  paper  in  which  the  sash  was 
wrapped  first  she  had  not  noticed.  The  inner  paper 
was  a  plain  white  one.  Some  writing  on  the  outer 
paper,  which  had  been  loosely  round  the  parcel,  caught 
her  eye.  It  was  a  part  of  a  bill  of  lading  of  the  Ham 
burg  barque  Frances,  bound  to  Valparaiso,  and  it 
bore  date  three  days  back,  and  was  signed  by  G.  A. 
Reitzel,  captain.  Alphonsine  had  not  meant  to  leave 
this  trace  ;  in  her  hurry,  perhaps,  she  had  pulled  this 
paper  out  of  her  pocket  with  the  package.  Gabrielle 
said  it  had  not  been  wrapped  around  it,  but  had  been 
with  it  when  in  the  hurry  and  the  darkness  she  had 
thrust  it  into  her  hand.  Missy  sprang  up  in  haste. 
This  was  an  important  clew.  How  should  she  get  the 
news  to  the  Ilia?  She  left  the  astonished  Gabrielle 
and  flew  down  stairs.  One  or  two  gentlemen  were  on 
the  beach  below  the  house,  talking,  and  scanning  the 
harbor  with  glasses.  She  ran  down  to  them  and  com 
municated  her  news.  It  might  make  all  the  difference, 
they  said,  and  they  estimated  its  importance  as  highly 
as  she  did.  It  was  of  the  greatest  moment  that  they 
should  be  warned  to  look  for  a  German  barque  and 
not  a  French  one  ;  besides  the  difference  of  the  course 
she  would  take  for  Valparaiso  if  she  got  out  to  sea  be 
fore  they  overhauled  her.  Missy  shivered. 


ALP1IONSINE.  281 

"  Don't  talk  of  that,"  she  said.  "  The  suspense 
would  be  unbearable.  I  look  for  them  back  to-night." 

The  elder  of  the  gentlemen  shook  his  head.  "  You 
must  remember  they  had  nearly  seven  hours  the 
start  of  us,"  lie  said,  "and  a  good  stiff  breeze  since 
daybreak." 

"But  the  delays,"  said  Missy,  "  and  the  uncertainty 
of  coming  up  with  the  vessel  at  the  right  moment.  I 
count  on  their  losing  hours  in  that." 

"  But  then,"  returned  the  other,  "  the  woman  must 
have  had  good  assurance  of  their  arrangements  to  have 
taken  the  embargo  off  the  child  at  ten." 

"How  shall  we  overtake  them  and  get  this  news  to 
them?"  asked  Missy,  finding  speculation  very  tire 
some  which  did  not  lead  up  to  this.  No  one  could 
suggest  an  answer.  The  Ilia  was  the  quickest  vessel 
anywhere  about,  and  it  would  be  an  impossibility  to 
overtake  her. 

"  Can't  you  telegraph  to  some  station  a  few  miles 
further  down  the  Sound  than  she  can  yet  be,  and  tell 
them  to  send  out  a  boat  and  watch  for  her,  and  board 
her  with  the  message?"  said  Missy.  This  was  finally 
decided  on,  and  carried  out  with  some  variations. 

About  two  o'clock,  a  message  was  received  that  the 
Ilia  had  been  boarded,  and  was  in  possession  of  the 
intelligence.  She  had  evidently  sighted  no  Hamburg 
bark,  or  she  would  have  sent  back  word  to  that  effect, 
nor  had  she  made  quite  as  good  time  as  they  had  hoped 
she  would.  The  wind  was  slackening,  and  varying 
from  one  quarter  to  another.  It  would  not  hold  out 
much  longer,  every  one  agreed  in  thinking.  And  so 
the  afternoon  wore  on.  Some  of  the  gentlemen  went 
in  to  the  Varians  and  got  a  glass  of  wine  and  some 


282  ALPHONSINE. 

lunch  in  the  dining-room.  Others  drove  away  and 
came  back  again.  Always  there  were  two  or  three  on 
the  lawn,  and  some  one  was  always  at  the  glass  by  the 
beach  gate. 

Missy  shut  herself  into  her  own  room.  Even  her 
mother's  sympathy  was  no  help.  She  wanted  to  be  let 
alone  ;  the  suspense  was  telling  on  her  nerves.  She 
had  hardly  eaten  at  all,  and  there  had  scarcely  been  a 
moment  till  now,  that  she  had  not  been  using  her  wits 
in  the  most  active  way.  Poor  wits  ;  they  felt  as  if 
they  were  near  a  revolt.  But  what  could  she  do  with 
them  for  the  hours  that  remained,  before  a  word,  good 
or  bad,  could  come  from  the  slim  little  yacht  and  her 
gallant  crew?  Hours,  she  talked  about.  She  well 
knew  it  might  be  days.  One  of  the  gentlemen  on  the 
lawn  had  said,  of  course  she  would  return  if  by  mid 
night  they  had  met  with  no  success  ;  they  were  not 
provisioned  for  a  cruise  ;  and  at  best  would  never 
think  of  going  out  to  sea.  This  gentleman  was  elderly, 
and  had  a  son  on  board  the  Ilia.  Missy  scorned  his 
opinion — now  that  Mr.  Andrews  had  gone,  there  would 
be  no  turning  back.  She  did  not  say  anything,  but 
she  felt  quite  safe,  provisions  or  no  provisipns.  The 
days  did  wear  away — as  all  days  do. 

"  Be  the  day  weary,  or  never  so  long, 
At  last  it  riugeth  to  evensong." 

Evensong,  however,  brought  its  own  additions  to 
the  misery.  If  it  were  hard  to  think  of  the  betrayed 
child,  alone  with  such  cruel  keepers,  when  the  sun 
shone,  and  the  waves  danced  blue  and  white,  it  was 
little  short  of  maddening  when  the  twilight  thickened, 


ALPIIONSINE.  233 

and  the  long  day  died,  and  the  thick,  starless  night 
set  in.  Missy  could  not  stay  in  the  house  after  dark  ; 
it  seemed  to  her  insupportable  to  be  within  four  walls. 
She  paced  the  beach  below  the  lawn,  or  sat  under 
shelter  of  the  boat-house,  and  watched  the  bonfire 
which  the  men  had  made  a  few  feet  off,  and  which 
sent  a  red  light  out  a  little  way  upon  upon  the  black 
waters. 

A  little  way,  alas,  how  little  a  way  !  Missy's  eyes 
were  always  strained  eagerly  out  into  the  darkness 
beyond  ;  her  ears  were  always  listening  for  something 
more  than  the  lonely  sounds  she  heard.  It  seemed  to 
her  that  it  would  be  intolerable  to  watch  out  these 
hours  of  darkness  and  silence  ;  she  must  penetrate 
them.  She  felt  as  if  her  solicitude  and  wretchedness 
would  be  half  gone  if  the  night  were  lifted,  and  the 
day  come  again.  Ten  o'clock  struck — eleven — the 
outsiders,  one  by  one,  dropped  off.  There  were  left 
two  or  three  men  who  had  been  hired  by  some  of  the 
gentlemen  to  watch  the  night  out  by  the  bonfire  ;  Mr. 
Andrews'  own  man,  the  Varians'  man,  and  Missy  and 
Goneril.  Eliza,  the  nurse,  worn  out  and  useless,  had 
gone  to  bed.  Of  course,  Ann  was  expended,  and  no 
one  but  Goneril  had  nerve  and  strength  left  to  be  of 
any  service.  She  had  a  real  affection  for  the  little 
boy,  with  all  her  ungraciousness,  and  felt,  with  Missy, 
that  the  house  was  suffocating,  and  sleep  impossible. 
She  had  got  Miss  Varian  into  her  bed,  and  then  told 
her  she  must  fight  her  burglars  by  herself,  for  Miss 
Rothermel  needed  her  more  than  she.  This  put  Miss 
Varian  in  a  rage,  but  Goneril  did  not  stop  to  listen. 
She  went  to  Mrs.  Varian's  room,  and  soothed  her  by 
taking  down  warm  wraps  for  Missy,  and  promising  to 


284  ALPHONSINE. 

stay  by  her  till  she  consented  to  come  up  and  go  to 
bed.  She  also  carried  down  coffee  and  biscuits  to  the 
men,  and  made  Missy  drink  some,  and  lie  down  a  little 
while  inside  the  boat-house  door.  It  was  surprising 
how  invaluable  Goneril  was  in  time  of  trouble,  and 
how  intolerable  in  hours  of  ease. 

Midnight  passed,  and  in  the  cold,  dreary  hours 
between  that  and  dawn,  poor  Missy's  strength  and 
courage  ebbed  low.  She  was  chilled  and  ill  ;  her 

O  J 

fancy  had  been  drawing  such  dreadful  pictures  for  her 
they  were  having  the  same  effect  upon  her  as  realities. 
She  felt  quite  sure  that  the  child  never  would  be  re 
stored  to  them  ;  that  even  now,  perhaps,  his  life  was 
in  danger  from  the  violent  temper  of  the  wicked 
woman  in  whose  hands  he  was  ;  that  if  she  found  her 
self  near  being  thwarted  in  her  object,  she  was  quite 
capable  of  killing  him.  Her  temper  was  violent,  even 
outstripping  her  cunning  and  malice.  Poor  little  boy  ! 
how  terrified  and  lonely  he  would  be,  shut  down,  per 
haps,  in  some  dark  hole  in  the  ship.  "I  want  you, 
Missy  !  I  want  you,  Missy  !"  he  had  cried,  heartbroken, 
in  the  darkness  of  his  own  nursery.  What  would  be 
his  terror  in  the  darkness  of  that  foreign  ship.  She 
felt  such  a  horror  of  her  own  thoughts  that  she  tried 
to  sleep  ;  failing  that,  she  made  Goneril  talk  to  her, 
till  the  talking  was  intolerable. 

The  men  around  the  fire  smoked  and  dozed,  or 
chatted  in  low  tones  ;  the  wind,  which  had  come  up 
again,  made  a  wailing  noise  in  the  trees,  the  rising 
tide  washed  monotonously  over  the  pebbles  ;  a  bird 
now  and  then  twittered  a  sharp  note  of  wonder  at  the 
untimely  light  of  the  fire  upon  the  beach.  These  were 


ALPHONSINE.  285 

the  only  sounds  ;  the  night  was  unusually  dark  ;  a 
damp  mist  shut  out  the  stars,  and  there  was  no  moon. 

It  was  just  two  o'clock  ;  Missy  had  bent  down  for 
the  fiftieth  time  to  look  at  her  watch  by  the  light  of 
the  bonfire  ;  Goneril,  silent  and  stern,  was  sitting  with 
her  hands  clasped  around  her  knees,  on  the  boat-house 
floor,  when  a  sudden  sound  broke  the  stillness,  a  gun 
from  the  yacht  as  she  rounded  into  the  harbor.  The 
two  women  sprang  to  their  feet,  and  Missy  clutched 
Goneril's  arm. 

"  If  those  milk-sops  have  come  back  without  him," 
said  the  latter  between  her  teeth,  answering  Missy's 
thought.  Surely  they  would  not  have  come  without 
him  ;  the  father  was  not  a  man  to  give  up  so  ;  and  yet 
it  was  earlier  than  any  one  had  supposed  it  possible 
they  could  return  ;  and  the  wind  had  been  so  variable, 
and  the  night  so  dark.  Could  it  be  that  they  had  come 
in,  disheartened  and  hungry  ?  feeling  the  barque  was 
beyond  their  reach  upon  the  seas,  and  excusing  them 
selves  by  sending  after  her  steam  instead  of  sail '? 

The  men  around  the  fire  sprang  up  at  the  sound  of 
the  gun,  and  iu  an  instant  were  all  alertness.  One 
threw  a  fresh  armfull  of  wood  on  the  fire  ;'  to  make  it 
more  cheerful-like  ;"  two  others  sprang  into  a  small 
boat  and  pushed  out  to  meet  the  yacht. 

"  It'll  be  a  half  hour  before  they  can  anchor  and 
get  off  a  boat  and  land,"  said  Goneril,  impatiently. 
"It'll  never  occur  to  'em  that  anybody  on  shore  may 
want  to  know  the  news  they've  got.  As  long  as  they 
know  themselves,  they  think  it's  all  that's  necessary." 

Missy  felt  too  agitated  to  speak.  The  long  excite 
ment  had  taken  all  her  strength  away,  and  a  half  hour 
more  of  suspense  seemed  impossible  to  bear.  Goneril 


286  ALPHONSINE. 

also  found  it  intolerable  ;  she  bad  not  lost  her  strength 
by  the  day's  agitation,  but  she  had  no  patience  to 
stand  still  and  wait  for  them. 

"  I'll  run  up  and  tell  the  cook  to  have  some  coffee 
ready  for  the  gentlemen,  and  some  supper.  Most 
likely  they've  come  in  for  that.  Men  don't  work  long 
upon  an  empty  stomach.  The  boy  wouldn't  be  much 
to  them  if  the  provisions  had  given  out." 

With  this  sneer  she  hurried  away,  and  left  Missy 
alone.  She  came  back,  however,  before  the  sound  of 
oars  drew  very  near  the  beach.  She  had  caught  up  a 
lantern  from  the  hall  table  as  she  passed  it,  and  lighted 
it  at  the  fire.  It  gave  a  good  light,  and  shone  up  into 
her  handsome  face,  as  she  paced  up  and  down  rest 
lessly  upon  the  beach. 

"  Well,  they'll  soon  be  here,"  she  said,  standing 
still  and  listening  to  the  regular  stroke  of  the  oars,  and 
the  sound  of  voices  out  in  the  darkness  gradually  com 
ing  nearer.  "  They  can't  be  much  longer,  if  they  don't 
stop  to  play  a  game  of  enchre  on  the  way,  or  toss  up 
which  shall  stand  the  supper.  Much  they  care  for  any 
thing  but  that.  If  they  could  smell  the  coffee  it  would 
hurry  them.  Men  are  all  alike." 

The  voices  came  nearer  ;  Missy's  eager  eyes  saw 
the  boat's  prow  push  into  the  circle  of  light  that  went 
out  from  the  bonfire,  but  the  mist  made  it  impossible 
to  discern  what  and  who  were  in  her.  She  made  a 
step  forward,  and  the  water  washed  against  her  feet  ; 
she  clasped  her  hands  together  and  gazed  forward, 
scarcely  seeing  anything  for  her  agitation.  Goneril 
stood  just  behind  her,  on  the  sand,  holding  up  the  lan 
tern,  which  shone  through  Missy's  yellow  hair.  Missy 


ALPIIONSINE.  287 

saw  some  one  spring  ashore  ;  she  heard  the  captain's 
hearty  voice  call  out  : 

"  All  right,  Miss  Rothermel  ;  you  put  us  on  the 
right  track  ;  we've  brought  the  little  fellow  back,  safe 
and  sound,  to  you." 

Then  some  one  else  stepped  out  upon  the  sand  ; 
some  one  else,  with  something  in  his  arms,  and,  in  a 
moment  more,  a  little  pair  of  arms,  warm  and  tight, 
hugged  her  neck,  and  a  fretful  voice  cried  : 

"  Let  me  go  to  Missy — I  want  Missy — "  and  Mr. 
Andrews  hoarsely  said,  trying  to  take  him  back,  se-eiug 
her  stagger  under  his  weight, 

"  Let  me  carry  you  ;  you  shall  go  to  Missy  in  a 
moment,  and  you  shan't  be  taken  away  from  her  again." 

They  were  within  a  few  steps  of  the  boat-house  ; 
Missy,  with  the  child  clinging  obstinately  to  her, 
staggered  into  it,  and  then — well,  it  was  all  a  blank 
after  that ;  for  the  first  time  in  her  life,  and  the  last 
in  this  history,  she  fainted  dead  away. 

Jay  stopped  his  crying,  Goneril  dropped  her 
lantern,  Mr.  Andrews  started  forward  and  caught  her 
in  his  arms.  The  other  genllemen,  directed  by 
Goneril,  had  already  gone  towards  the  house  ;  Goneril, 
in  an  instant,  seeing  what  happened,  called  to  one 
of  the  men  on  the  beach,  to  run  for  water  and  some 
brandy,  and  kneeling  down,  received  Missy  in  her 
arms,  and  laid  her  gently  down  upon  some  shawls. 
Mr.  Andrews  caught  up  the  lantern,  and  anxiously 
scanned  the  very  white  face  upon  the  shawls.  It 
looked  dreadfully  like  a  dead  face  ;  poor  Jay  was 
awestruck,  and  crept  close  to  his  father's  side.  Goneril 
chafed  her  hands,  loosened  her  dress,  fanned  her, 
moved  the  shawls  and  laid  her  flatter  on  the  floor. 


288  ALPHONSINE. 

But  it  was  an  obstinate  faint  ;  even  Goneril  looked  up 
alarmed  into  Mr.  Andrews'  alarmed  face. 

"  I  wish  we  had  the  doctor,  though  he's  an  ass," 
she  said.  "  Send  your  man  there  for  him,  quick  as  he 
can  go  ;  but  don't  you  go  away  yourself,  I  might  want 
you — I  don't  know  what  is  going  to  happen." 

It  was  a  moment's  work  to  despatch  the  man,  who 
was  helping  haul  up  the  boat,  which  half  a  man  could 
have  done.  The  brandy  and  the  water  soon  arrived,  but 
failed  to  produce  any  apparent  effect.  "  You  take 
that  hand,  rub  it — don't  be  afraid — rub  it  hard,"  said 
Goneril,  as  Mr.  Andrews,  kneeling  on  the  other  side, 
set  down  the  lantern.  "  I  don't  like  this  sort  of  thing. 
I've  seen  a  dozen  women  faint  in  my  life,  but  they 
came  to  as  quick  as  wink,  if  you  dashed  water  on 
'em.  I've  heard  people  do  die  sometimes  of  their  feel 
ings — but  I  never  believed  it  before.  But  then,  I  needn't 
wonder — this  lias  been  an  awful  day,  and  she's  looked, 
poor  thing,  like  dead  for  the  last  four  hours  or  more. 
Heavens,  there  ain't  a  bit  of  pulse  in  her.  Just  you 
put  your  ear  down  :  I  can't  hear  her  heart  beat — why 
don't  that  idiot  hurry  ;  not  that  he'll  do  any  good  by 
coming,  but,  my  conscience,  I  don't  want  her  to  die  on 
my  hands.  I've  had  enough  of  this  sort  of  business. 
I  wouldn't  go  through  such  another  day.  I've  heard 
of  people  losing  their  heads  when  they  were  most 
wanted — I — I  don't  know  what  to  do — I  believe  I've 
lost  mine  now — "  and  Goneril  dropped  the  hand  which 
she  had  been  fiercely  chafing,  and  starting  up,  stood 
with  her  arms  upon  her  hips,  gazing  down  on  Missy. 

Poor  Goneril,  the  'day  had  been  a  hard  one,  and  she 
was  made  of  the  same  clay  as  other  women,  though  a 
little  stiffer  baked.  She  had  lost  her  head,  and  her 


ALPHONSINE.  289 

nerves  were  shaken,  for  once  in  her  experience.  Mr. 
Andrews'  day  certainly  had  not  been  less  hard,  but 
he  had  a  man's  strength  to  go  upon,  and  not  a 
woman's. 

"  Let  us  see,"  he  said,  lifting  Missy  and  laying  her 
where  the  wind  blew  fresh  upon  her  from  the  door, 
then  hurrying  to  another  door  pushed  it  open  violently 
with  his  knee — "  Hold  the  lantern  down,"  he  said — 
"  Now  give  me  the  brandy,"  and  he  forced  a  drop  or 
two  into  her  mouth.  The  change  of  position,  or  the 
stimulant,  or  the  fresh  wind  in  her  face,  started  her 
suspended  powers  into  play — and  a  slight  movement 
of  the  lips  and  a  flutter  in  the  pulse  on  which  Mr. 
Andrews'  hand  was  laid,  showed  him  Goneril  had  been 
in  a  panic,  and  Missy  was  only  paying  the  penalty  of 
being  an  excitable  woman.  I  hope  he  didn't  think  it 
was  a  nuisance,  considering  it  was  all  about  his  boy. 
Goneril  was  quite  ashamed  of  herself  for  having  lost 
the  head  on  which  she  so  prided  herself.  She  was 
almost  sharp  with  the  young  lady,  when,  after  more 
rubbing  and  more  brandy,  she  opened  her  eyes  and 
looked  about  her. 

"  I  didn't  know  you  was  one  of  the  fainting  kind 
or  I  should  have  been  prepared  for  you,"  she  said, 
raising  her  up  and  putting  some  pillows  and  shawls 
behind  her.  The  pillows  and  shawls  she  had  twitched 
into  place  with  asperity,  the  tone  in  which  she  spoke 
was  not  dulcet. 

"  You  have  given  us  a  great  fright,"  said  Mr. 
Andrews,  drawing  a  long  breath  as  he  stood  up  ;  and, 
taking  off  his  hat,  passed  his  hand  over  his  forehead. 

"It  doesn't  take  much  to  frighten   a  man,"  said 
Goneril  tartly.     "  Please  to  shut  that  door.     Cold's  as 
13 


290  ALPHONSINE. 

bad  to  die  of  as  a  fainting  fit,  and  it's  like  a  pair  of 
bellows  blowing  on  her  back." 

"  What  are  you  talking  about,  and  where  am  I?" 
murmured  poor  Missy,  a  sickened  look  passing  over  her 
face,  as  her  eyes  fell  on  Mr.  Andrews.  He  wasn't  slow 
to  understand  it,  and  kneeling  down  beside  her,  said  : 
"You  have  had  too  much  excitement  to-day,  and 
getting  Jay  back  made  you  faint.  Now,  don't  think 
any  more  about  it,  but  let  me  assure  you,  he  is  well 
and  safe." 

For  Master  Jay,  like  a  valiant  little  man,  had 
slunk  out  of  sight  at  the  occurrence  of  the  fainting  fit, 
and  stood  outside  the  door-post,  around  which  he 
gazed  furtively  back  upon  the  group,  prepared  to  depart 
permanently,  if  anything  tragic  came  about.  He  vas 
thoroughly  masculine,  was  Jay  ;  he  never  voluntarily 
stayed  where  it  wasn't  pleasant. 

When  Missy  heard  Mr.  Andrews'  words,  and  knew 
that  her  keen  suspense  had  ended,  she  began  to  cry  hys 
terically.  Everybody  knows  that  the  physical  sensa 
tions  of  coming  back  after  a  faint  are  not  joy  f  ul,  no  mat 
ter  what  news  you  hear.  It  was  all  horror  and  suffering, 
and  Missy  wept  as  if  her  heart  were  broken  instead  of 
being  healed.  Goneril  chided  her  with  very  little  re 
gard  to  distinction  of  class  ;  but  they  had  been  fellow- 
sufferers  for  so  many  hours,  she  seemed  in  a  manner 
privileged. 

"I  can't  think  what  you're  taking  on  so  about,"  she 
said,  spreading  the  shawl  out  over  Missy's  feet,  picking 
up  the  lantern,  and  tidying  up  the  boat-house  as  a 
natural  vent  to  her  feelings.  "  There  might  have  been 
some  sense  in  it  if  they  had  come  in  without  the  child, 
as  we  thought  they  would  ;  or  if  he'd  been  your  own 


ALPUONSINE.  291 

child,  or  if  it  had  been  any  fault  of  yours,  that  he  got 
carried  off.  There's  nothing  ever  gained  by  bothering 
about  other  people's  troubles  ;  folks  have  generally  got 
enough  to  do  in  getting  along  with  their  own.  The 
Lord  gives  you  grace  to  bear  what  He  sends  you — at 
l^ast  lie  engages  to  ;  but  there  ain't  any  promises  to 
them  that  take  on  about  what  they've  taken  up  of 
themselves.  Don't  set  your  heart  on  other  people's 
children  unless  you  want  it  broken  for  you.  And  don't 
go  to  managing  other  people's  matters  unless  you  want 
to  get  into  the  hottest  kind  of  water.  You  burn  your 
fingers  when  you  put  'em  into  other  people's  pies. 
Every  man  for  himself  and  every  woman  for  herself, 
most  emphatic.  Keep  your  tears  till  the  Lord  sends  you 
children  of  your  own  to  cry  about  ;  goodness  knows 
you'll  need  'em  all  if  you  ever  come  to  that." 

Goneril  had  had  two  children  in  her  early  disas 
trous  marriage  ;  one  had  died,  and  one  had  lived 
to  go  to  destruction  in  his  father's  steps,  so  she  always 
bore  about  with  her  a  sore  heart,  and  the  passionate 
love  of  children,  which  she  could  not  repress,  she 
always  fought  down  fiercely  with  both  hands.  Her 
sharp  words  did  not  soothe  Missy  much.  She  cried  and 
cried  as  if  there  were  nothing  left  to  live  for,  and  the 
fact  that  Mr.  Andrews  was  there  and  was  trying  to 
make  her  hear  him  above  Goneril's  tirade,  did  not  help 
matters  in  the  least. 

"  If  you'll  take  my  advice,"  said  Goneril  to  this 
latter  person,  dashing  some  more  brandy  and  water 
into  a  glass,  and  speaking  to  him  over  her  shoulder  as 
she  did  it,  "  If  you'll  take  my  advice,  you'll  go  away 
and  leave  her  to  get,  over  it  by  herself.  She's  just  got 
to  cry  it  out,  and  the  sight  of  you  and  the  boy'll  only 


292  ALPUONSINE. 

make  it  worse.     Take  him   home  and  put  him  to  bed, 
and  let'tf  have  a  little  common  sense." 

"Oh,  go  away,  go  away,  everybody,"  cried  poor 
Missy,  smothering  her  face  down  in  the  shawls. 

"Take  this,"  said  Goneril,  sternly,  holding  the 
brandy  and  water  to  her  lips,  which  she  had  no  choice 
but  to  take,  and  it  was  a  mercy  that  she  didn't  strangle 
amidst  her  sobs.  But  she  didn't,  and  found  voice  to 
say, 

"I  am  better.  I  don't  want  anything  but  to  be  by 
myself,"  before  she  began  to  sob  again. 

Thus  adjured,  it  was  natural  that  poor  Mr.  An 
drews  should  think  it  best  to  go  away.  Nobody  wanted 
him,  evidently,  and  he  had  been  ordered  away  by  two 
women,  when  one  was  always  quite  enough  for  him. 
So  he  took  Jay  by  the  hand  and  went  out  into  the  dim 
path  that  led  up  to  his  own  house.  It  was,  no  doubt, 
time  to  put  the  child  to  bed  !  The  clock  in  the  hall 
was  just  proclaiming  three  in  its  queer  voice,  as  he 
went  in,  and  stumbled  through  the  darkness  up  to  the 
nursery,  where  he  had  to  go  through  another  scene 
with  the  nurse,  who  woke  up  and  was  hysterical. 

But  Jay  soon  battered  the  hysterics  out  of  her.  He 
had  been  fretful  before,  but  now  he  was  fiendish,  and 
it  was  as  much  as  they  could  do  to  get  him  into  bed.  I 
am  afraid  it  passed  through  her  mind  that  he'd  better 
have  got  to  France,  and  it  took  all  the  paternal  love  of 
Mr.  Andrews  to  keep  from  inaugurating  his  return 
home  by  a  good  thrashing.  The  tragic  and  comic  and 
very  unpleasant  are  mixed  in  such  an  intimate  way  in 
some  cups. 


ENTER    MISS     VABLiN.  293 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

ENTER   MISS   VARIAN. 

rTE  next  day  about  noon  Mr.  Andrews,  with 
Jay  by  the  hand,  walked  up  the  steps  of 
the  Varians'  house.  He  had  got  a  few 
hours  of  sleep  after  daylight,  and  had  just 
swallowed  a  cap  of  coffee  and  called  it  breakfast,  and 
now,  looking  haggard  and  weary,  had,  as  was  proper, 
come  over  to  see  about  Missy  and  her  hysterics. 

She  too  had  just  come  down-stairs,  and  was  sitting 
in  a  great  chair  by  the  window  in  the  parlor,  with  foot 
stool  under  her  feet  and  an  afghan  spread  over  her. 
The  day  was  cool  and  brilliant  ;  all  the  fogs  and  clouds 
of  the  night  had  been  blown  away  by  a  strong  north 
wind  ;  the  sun  was  coming  in  at  the  window,  and 
JVIissy  was  trying  to  get  warm  in  it,  for  she  felt  like 
Harry  Gill  in  the  story-book,  as  if  she  should  never 
get  warm  again.  She  was  pale,  and  lay  with  her  head 
back  in  the  chair,. looking  a  disgust  with  life  and  its 
emotions.  From  this  attitude  she  was  roused  by  the 
unexpected  entrance  of  Jay  and  his  father,  whose  ap 
proach  she  had  not  heard.  She  changed  color  and 
tried  to  stand  up,  and  then  sat  down  again. 

"  Don't  get  up,"  said  Mr.  Andrews,  lifting  Jay  to 
kiss  her.  "  There,  Jay,  now  you'd  better  go  away. 
Find  Goneril  and  play  'vith  the  kittens  a  little  while, 
and  then  I'll  take  yon  home." 

He  opened  the  door  for  Jay,  who  was  very  willing 
to  go,  not  feeling  quite  at  home  with  Missy  yet,  since 


294  ENTER    MISS     VARIANT. 

the  fainting-fit.  lie  looked  askance  at  her  as  lie  went 
out  of  the  door,  as  at  one  who  had  come  back  from 
the  dead. 

"  He  wasn't  worth  all  I  went  through  for  him  yes 
terday,"  thought  Missy.  And  then  she  took  it  back, 
and  thought,  in  an  instant,  he  was  worth  a  great  deal 
more — which  was  a  way  of  hers. 

Mr.  Andrews  sat  down  on  the  other  side  of  the 
window,  and  said,  with  a  weary  laugh,  as  he  leaned 
back  in  his  chair,  "  I'm  glad  it's  to-day,  instead  of 
yesterday." 

"  Ah  !"  said  Missy,  with  a  shiver. 

"  I  don't  know  how  much  you've  heard  of  our  ad 
ventures — " 

"  I  haven't  heard  anything.  I  have  just  come 
down-stairs,  and  last  night  I  wouldn't  let  them  tell 
me.  I  only  wish  I  could  forget  it  all.  I  cannot  bear 
to  think  of  it." 

"  I  don't  wonder.  It  was  bad  enough  for  us,  who 
were  doing  something  all  the  time,  but  for  you,  who 
couldn't  do  anything  but  wait,  it  must  have  been — 
well,  there's  no  use  going  over  it.  We've  got  him, 
Miss  Rothermel,  and  that's  enough  to  think  about. 
Only  let  me  tell  you  this,  if  it  hadn't  been  for  you,  we 
should  not  have  him  now." 

"If  it  hadn't  been  for  me,  you  wouldn't  have  lost 
him  at  all,"  said  Missy,  bitterly. 

"I  don't  understand — you  mean  the  woman's  hos 
tility  to  you  ?  I  really  think  t!i.*t  had  very  little  to 
do  with  it.  She  is  such  an  evil  creature,  she  would 
have  done  the  same,  or  worse,  without  that  for  an  ex 
cuse.  You  may,  rather  than  reproach  yourself  for 
that,  congratulate  yourself  upon  having  been  the 


ENTER    MISS     VARIAN.  295 

means  of  sending  her  away,  before  the  child  was 
totally  corrupted.  When  I  think  what  danger  he — 
they — were  in  from  her,  and  how  little  I  suspected  it, 
I  am  more  than  ever  convinced  that  I  am  not  fit  to 
have  the  care  of  him.  Believe  me,  you  did  me,  as 
,  well  as  the  children,  an  inestimable  favor,  when  you 
advised  me  to  send  those  creatures  away  ;  and  to  you 
I  owe  a  year  of  comfort  and  peace,  and  Jay  owes,  I 
don't  know  what." 

Missy  flushed  painfully,  and  her  companion  saw  it, 
but  he  went  on  ruthlessly,  "  You  never  will  let  me  al 
lude  to  this,  Miss  Rothermel  ;  but  I  want  to  say  one 
thing  about  it,  now  we  are  on  the  subject,  and  then  I 
will  promise  not  to  trouble  you  again.  You  are  so 
over-sensitive  about  this  matter  you  have  made  your 
self  uncomfortable,  and — well — though  it's  not  of  much 
importance — you've  made  me  uncomfortable  too.  If 
you  will  believe  me  when  I  say  I  shall  always  consider 
you  did  me  the  greatest  favor  when  you  induced  me 
to  send  those  servants  away,  and  if  you  will  bear  in 
mind  the  benefit  you  did  the  children,  you  will  surely 
be  able  to  be  indifferent  to  the  tattle  of  a  set  of  people 
whose  tongues  are  always  busy  about  their  betters,  in, 
one  way  or  another.  If  they  were  not  talking  about 
this,  they  would  be  talking  about  something  else  ;  it 
was  only  the  accident  of  your  hearing  it  that  was  un 
usual.  I  have  no  doubt  in  our  kitchens  every  day  are 
said  things  that  would  enrage  us,  but  luckily  we  don't 
hear  them.  This  has  been  such  a  barrier  between  us, 
Miss  Rothermel  ;  won't  you  be  good  enough  to  make 
way  with  it  to-day,  and  promise  not  to  think  of  it 
again  ?  You  have  given  me  a  new  cause  for  gratitude 
in  what  you  did  for  Jay  yesterday.  Surely,  after  what 


2S6  ENTER    MISS     VARIANT. 

we  both  went  through  we  can  never  be  exactly  like — • 
like  strangers — to  each  other.  I  hope  you'll  let  me  come 
a  little  nearer  to  being  a  friend  than  you've  ever  per 
mitted  me  before,  though  if  I  recollect,  you  made  a 
very  fair  promise  once  about  it." 

"  Why  haven't  I  kept  it?  I  can't  remember  hav- 
ing-" 

"  Having  snubbed  me  badly  since  that  night.  No, 
I  acknowledge  that  you  have  kept  your  resolution 
pretty  fairly.  But  then,  you  know,  it  was  impossible 
not  to  see  it  was  an  effort  all  the  time.  If  you  could 
forget  all  this  about  the  servants,  and  let  us  be  the 
sort  of  friends  we  might  have  been  if  Gabriel le  had 
never  meddled,  you  would  lay  me  under  another  obli 
gation,  and  a  more  binding  one  than  any  of  the  others, 
great  as  they  have  been." 

Mr.  Andrews  was  talking  very  earnestly,  and  in  a 
manner  unusual  to  him.  One  could  not  help  seeing 
that  nothing  short  of  the  events  of  yesterday  could 
have  made  it  possible  for  him  to  speak  so.  His  heart 
had  been  jarred  open,  as  it  were,  by  the  great  shock, 
and  had  not  yet  closed  up  again.  It  wouldn't  take 
many  hours  more  to  do  it  ;  Missy  realized  that  per 
haps  he  wouldn't  speak  so  again  in  his  life ;  the  mo 
ment  was  precious  to  her,  because,  whether  she  liked 
him  or  not,  there  is  a  pleasure  in  looking  into  reserved 
people's  hearts  ;  one  knows  it  cannot  happen  every 
day. 

And  that  was  the  moment  that  Miss  Varian  chose 
for  coming  into  the  parlor,  with  Goneril  and  Jay  and 
the  kittens.  She  had  heard  his  voice,  and  she  naturally 
wished  to  hear  all  about  the  affair  of  the  pursuit. 
Goueril  was  nothing  loth,  and  Jay  was  quite  willing 


ENTER    MISS     VARIAN.  297 

to  go  if  the  kittens  went,  so  here  the  party  were. 
Missy  involuntarily  bit  her  lips.  Mr.  Andrews'  fore 
head  contracted  into  a  frown  as  he  got  up  and  spoke 
to  Miss  Varian,  who  settled  herself  comfortably  into  a 
chair.  - 

"  Now,"  she  said  taking  her  fan  from  Goneril,  and 
getting  her  footstool  into  the  right  place,  "  now  let  us 
hear  all  about  it." 

Mr.  Andrews,  with  a  hopelessly  shut-up  look,  said 
he  didn't  think  there  was  much  to  tell. 

"  Not  much  to  tell  !"  she  echoed.  "  Why,  there's 
enough  to  fill  a  novel.  I  never  came  so  near  to  a  ro 
mance  in  my  life.  I  positively  wouldn't  have  missed 
yesterday  for  a  thousand  dollars.  It  gives  one  such 
emotions  to  know  so  much  is  going  on  beside  one,  Mr. 
Andrews." 

Mr.  Andrews  didn't  deny  her  statement,  nor  a  great 
many  others  that  she  made,  but  he  seemed  to  find  it 
very  difficult  to  satisfy  her  curiosity.  In  fact,  she  got 
very  little  out  without  mining  for  it.  She  asked  the 
hour  when  they  first  sighted  the  barque,  and  she  got  it. 
Two  o'clock.  Then  the  course  they  took,  and  the 
changes  of  the  wind,  and  the  deviations  that  she  made, 
and  the  reasons  that  they  did  not  gain  upon  her  for  an 
hour  or  more.  All  this  might  have  been  interesting  to  a 
sea-faring  mind,  but  not  to  Miss  Varian's.  She  asked 
questions  and  got  answers,  but  she  fretted  and  didn't 
seem  to  find  herself  much  ahead.  Missy  knew  Mr. 
Andrews  had  come  over  to  tell  her  all  about  it — but  not 
Miss  Varian.  He  really  did  not  mean  to  be  obstinate, 
but  he  couldn't  tell  the  story  with  the  others  present. 
Missy  gathered  a  few  bald  facts,  to  be  filled  out  later 
from  the  narrative  of  others.  She  didn't  feel  a  con- 
13* 


298  ENTER    MISS     VARIAN. 

suming  curiosity.  Jay  was  here,  the  woman  wasn't. 
That  was  enough  for  the  present.  She  felt  a  far 
greater  interest  in  those  few  words  Mr.  Andrews  hud 
been  interrupted  in  saying.  They  went  over  and  over 
in  her  mind.  She  only  half  attended  to  Mis$»Varian's 
catechism. 

"  Well,"  cried  Goneril,  who  was'  hopelessly  jolted 
out  of  her  place  by  the  events  of  yesterday,  "  well,  one 
would  think  you'd  had  a  child  stolen  every  other  day 
this  summer,  by  the  way  you  take  it.  Captain  Sy- 
monds,  over  on  the  Neck,  made  twice  the  fuss  about 
his  calf,  last  autumn.  I  don't  believe  yet  he  talks 
about  much  else." 

Miss  Varian  gave  her  maid  a  sharp  reprimand,  and 
asked  Mr.  Andrews  another  question  in  the  same 
breath. 

"  How  did  the  French  woman  act  when  the  war 
rant  was  served  on  her  ?" 

"  Oh,  well,  just  as  any  Frenchwoman  would  have 
acted  under  the  circumstances,  I  suppose.  You  know 
they're  apt  to  make  a  scene  whether  there's  any  ex 
cuse  for  it  or  not." 

"  But  did  she  cry,  or  scold,  or  threaten,  or  swear,  or 
coax,  or  what  ?  " 

"  Why,  a  little  of  all,  I  think  ;  a  good  deal  of  all, 
indeed,  I  might  say.  She  tired  us  out,  I  know." 

"But  did  she  seem  frightened  ?  How  did  she  take 
it  ?  What  Avas  the  first  thing  she  said  when  she  saw 
the  officer  ?" 

"Upon  my  word,  I  have  forgotten  what  she  said. 
I  heard  Jay's  voice  in  the  cabin,  and  I  was  thinking 
more  about  him,  I  suppose." 


ENTER    MISS     VARIAN.  299 

"  But  what  excuse  did  she  make  for  herself  ?  How 
did  she  put  it?" 

"  Oh,  a  woman  never  has  any  trouble  to  find  ex 
cuses.  She  seemed  to  have  plenty." 

"But  what  possessed  you  to  be  so  soft-hearted  as 
to  let  her  go  ?  " 

"  \Yhat  did  I  want  of  her  ?  I  was  only  too  happy 
that  she  should  go,  the  further  off  the  better." 

"  I  must  say  I  think  you   were  ridiculously  weak." 

"  That  is  just  possible." 

"And  she,  and  the  wretch  she  called  her  husband, 
all  are  on  their  way  to  South  America  ?" 

"  I  hope  so,  I  am  sure." 

"  What  did  the  captain  say  ?  How  could  he  answer 
for  stopping  to  take  np  the  party  in  the  night?  Did 
he  pretend  to  be  ignorant  of  what  they  were  about  ?  " 

"  Yes,  he  assured  us  he  was  ignorant,  and  I  should 
not  wonder  if  he  spoke  the  truth — French  truth,  per 
haps  ;  but  I  don't  believe  he  suspected  more  than  a 
little  smuggling  venture,  or  an  nn-actionable  intrigue 
of  some  kind.  He  knew  the  man  somewhat,  and  made 
a  bargain  to  lay  outside  the  harbor  for  a  few  hours,  and 
pick  them  up  if  they  came  out  before  daylight.  The 
man  told  him  it  was  his  wife  and  child,  who  had  been 
detained  in  the  country  by  the  illness  of  the  child,  and 
that  he  would  pay  him  fifty  dollars,  besides  the  passage 
money,  if  he'd  wait  for  them.  No  doubt  the  captain 
suspected  something,  but,  as  I  say,  nothing  so  serious 
as  the  job  they'd  undertaken.'' 

"The  wretch  !  He  ought  to  have  had  his  ship 
brought  back  to  port,  and  have  been  kept  there  for  a 
month,  at  least,  and  lost  his  cargo,  and  been  put  to  no 
end  of  loss  and  law.  You  were  ridiculously  weak, 


300  ENTER    MISS     VARIAN. 

Mr.  Andrews,  to  let  him  go,  and  worse  than  weak  to 
let  the  woman  go." 

"  Maybe  so,  Miss  Varian,  maybe  so.  It  wouldn't 
be  the  first  time,  at  any  rate." 

"  To  think  of  that  horrid  creature  going  off  and 
doing  what  she  chooses  !" 

"  I'd  rather  think  of  her  in  South  than  in  North 
America.  And  as  to  doing  what  she  chooses — she'll 
do  that,  whichever  continent  she's  on — for  she  is  a 
woman." 

"  You  should  have  shut  her  up  in  prison,  and  made 
that  captain  suffer  all  that  the  law  could  put  upon 
him.  You  wouldn't  appear  against  them  because  you 
are  too  lazy,  Mr.  Andrews,  and  that  is  the  English  of 
it.  And  so  other  people's  children  may  be  stolen,  and 
other  vessels  go  prowling  around  our  shores,  and  this 
sort  of  thing  be  done  with  perfect  impunity,  Mr.  An 
drews,  with  perfect  impunity." 

"I  am  very  sorry,  Miss  Varian,  but  I  hope  it  won't 
be  as  bad  as  you  anticipate.  There  are  not  many 
women  as  wicked  as  Alphonsine,  and  I  don't  think  she 
will  try  it  again." 

"Try  it  again!  Why,  she  will  try  something 
worse.  She  will  never  rest.  I  shan't  sleep  easy  in  my 
bed.  I  do  not  think  we  are  safe  from  her  attempts, 
any  one  of  u<." 

Thereupon  Goneril  laughed,  a  most  disrespectful 
laugh,  though  a  suppressed  one,  and  her  mistress,  in  a 
temper,  ordered  her  out  of  the  parlor.  She  obeyed 
the  order  in  the  letter,  but  not  in  the  spirit,  pausing 
to  talk  to  Jay  about  the  kittens,  and  then  inviting  him 
to  the  piazza,  where,  the  windows  being  open,  she 
could  hear  the  conversation  within  as  well  as  before. 


AT    THE    BEACH    GATE.  301 

This  episode  broke  the  thread  of  Miss  Varian's  cate 
chism,  and  she  forgot  Alphonsine  in  her  wrath  against 
Goneril.  Meanwhile,  a  carriage  drove  up  with  vis 
itors  ;  Mr.  Andrews  hurried  to  depart,  Missy  disap 
peared  into  the  adjoining  room,  and  Miss  Varian, 
being  left  to  entertain  them,  soon  forgot  her  maid's 
offenses.  Visitors  were  a  balm  for  most  wounds,  with 
her. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 
AT    THE    BEACH    GATE. 

FORTNIGHT  after  this,  Mr.  Andrews  was 
smoking  his  post-prandial  cigar  with  the 
Varians  at  the  beach  gate,  and  watching 
the  sunset.  It  had  been  a  fortnight  of 
not  very  varied  experiences.  Mr.  Andrews  had  chiefly 
learned  from  it  how  difficult  it  was  to  see  much  of  his 
neighbors  without  making  it  a  formal  business.  It  was 
in  vain  to  ask  Miss  Rothermel  to  drive  ;  equally  un 
fruitful  to  ask  her  to  sail.  So  many  evenings  of 
the  week  proved  rainy,  or  foggy,  or  cold,  that  this 
was  only  the  third  cigar  he  had  smoked  on  their  lawn 
since  the  evening  when  they  watched  the  boat  which 
was  lying  in  wait  for  poor  Jay.  It  was  impossible  to 
deny  that  the  evenings  were  lonely,  and  that  meer- 
Fchauni  companions  were  scarce,  and  that  Mr.  Andrews, 
since  his  stirring  adventure,  had  rather  hankered  for 
some  one  to  speak  to.  This  evening  he  said,  rather 
awkwardly, 


302  AT     THE    BEACH    GATE. 

"Mrs.  Varian,  I  am  expecting  some  visitors  this 
week.  I  am  going  to  ask  you  to  call  on  them,  and — 
and  show  them  some  attention." 

Missy,  who  was  making  some  pictures  on  a  slate 
for  Jay  on  the  ground  at  her  feet,  suddenly  looked  up 
with  a  face  of  amazement. 

"  I  hope  it  isn't  Mr.  McKenzie,  for  he'd  rather  be 
excused  from  our  attentions,"  she  said  with  a  laugh. 

"  Xo,"  said  Mr.  Andrews,  looking  embarrassed,  "it 
isn't  any  of  my  boorish  men,  Miss  Rothermel.  It  is 
— some  ladies." 

"  Oh  !"  said  Missy,  and  she  dropped  her  eyes  on  Jay's 
pictures,  and  did  not  say  another  word.  What  she 
thought,  it  would  be  unwise  to  conjecture.  For  she 
felt  a  keen,  fine  tingle  of  anger  all  through  her,  and 
she  knew,  as  she  looked  at  Jay's  yellow  mane  lying  on 
her  lap,  that  he  was  going  to  be  taken  away  from  her 
more  surely  than  by  Alphonsine,  and  that  there  were 
breakers  ahead,  and  her  short-lived  peace  was  going  to 
founder.  She  went  through  it  all  in  such  a  flash  that 
she  felt  her  fate  was  settled  when  Mr.  Andrews  spoke 
again. 

"  I  have  asked  my  cousin,  a  charming  person,  Mrs. 
Eustace,  whom  I  am  sure  you'll  like,  to  come  with  her 
daughter  and  spend  the  remainder  of  the  summer  with 
me.  They  are  without  a  home  of  their  own  at  present, 
and  are  drifting,  and  it  seems  to  suit  them  very  well." 

"  No  doubt,"  said  Miss  Varian,  with  keen  interest. 
"  I'm  sure  they'll  have  a  nice  time.  Is  the  daughter 
pretty  ?" 

"I  believe  so,  rather,"  returned  Mr.  Andrews,  be 
ginning  to  feel  uncomfortable.  "  It  is  two  or  three  years 


AT    THE    BEACH    GATE.  303 

since  I  have  seen  her.  They  have  been  living  abroad 
some  time." 

"I  am  sure,"  said  Mrs.  Varian,  with  gentle  sym 
pathy,  "  it  will  be  a  very  pleasant  thing  for  you.  You 
may  depend  upon  us  to  do  all  we  can  to  make  the  la 
dies  satisfied  with  Yellowcoats.  I  am  sure  they  can't 
help  liking  it  if  they  do  not  care  for  gayety." 

"  I  am  certain  that  they  don't.  They  seem  to  me  the 
very  persons  to  be  happy  here.  They  are  cultivated  ; 
I'm  sure  you'll  like  them,  Miss  Rothermel,  and  the 
daughter  has  quite  a  talent  for  drawing,  and  they  are 
cheerful  and  always  ready  to  be  am.used,  and  are  gen 
erally  very  popular." 

"  Well,  well,"  cried  Miss  Varian,  "now  that  sounds 
pleasant.  They  are  just  what  we  want  here.  Missy 
needs  somebody  to  stir  her  up  a  little,  she  is  a  trifle  set 
and  selfish,  and  I  tell  her  she  never  will  be  popular  till 
she  gets  over  that  and  goes  into  things  with  a  little 
dash  of  jollity.  It  doesn't  do  to  be  too  dictatorial  and 
exclusive  and  superior  ;  people  leave  you  behind  and 
forget  that  you're  anything  but  a  feature  of  the  land 
scape.  It's  always  been  your  mistake,  Missy.  Now 
we'll  see  if  it's  too  late  to  mend,  and  whether  this 
young  lady  and  her  mother  will  not  teach  you  some 
thing." 

"  I  am  sure,"  said  Mr.  Andrews,  uncomfortably, 
"Miss  Rothermel  doesn't  need  to  be  taught — any 
thing.  I  should  think  it  was  rather  the  other  way." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Mrs.  Varian,  with  a  smile, 
covering  up  Missy's  silence.  "I  hope  it  need  not  be  a 
matter  of  instruction  either  side.  I  can  quite  under 
stand  neither  young  lady  would  enjoy  that." 

"  I  don't  know  anybody  would  enjoy  it  less  than 


304  AT     THE    BEACH    GATE. 

Missy,"  cried  Miss  Varian,  sharply,  for  she  scorned  the 
making  of  peace.  "  But  what  we  need,  is  not  always 
the  thing  we  enjoy." 

"  When  do  you  expect  your  guests  ?"  said  Mrs. 
Varian,  anxious  to  create  a  diversion. 

"The  latter  part  of  the  week,  I  should  think  ;  I 
don't  quite  know  what  day.  The  children  will  be  so 
much  the  better  for  having  them,  I  shall  be  glad  when 
they  are  here.  I  shall  feel  so  much  safer  about  Jay, 
when  I  am  in  town.  You  can  understand  for  the  last 
two  weeks  I  have  had  a  continual  feeling  of  uneasiness 
when  I  am  away  from  him." 

Considering  that  he  had  spent  every  day  since  that 
fatal  time,  in  Missy's  care,  this  did  seem  a  little  hard. 
She  did  not  reflect,  that  perhaps  he  did  not  know  it — 
her  bitter  feelings  did  not  favor  calm  reflection. 

"  Tell  us  something  more  about  our  future  neigh 
bors,"  said  Miss  Varian.  But  Mr.  Andrews  had  no 
ability  to  tell  things  when  he  was  uncomfortable,  and 
the  atmosphere  was  palpably  uncomfortable,  murky 
and  lowering.  He  didn't  know  what  he  had  done, 
poor  man,  he  had  thought  he  had  done  such  a  fine  thing. 
But  in  spite  of  Mrs.  Varian's  gentle  courtesy,  and 
Miss  Varian's  cheerful  bantering,  he  knew  he  had 
made  a  mistake.  He  wished  himself  well  out  of 
it,  and  was  glad  when  Mrs.  Varian  found  it  chilly 
and  got  up  to  go  into  the  house.  He  had  found  it 
chilly  for  some  time. 


FIVE     CANDLES.  305 

CHAPTER   XIX. 
FIVE    CANDLES. 

TIE  week  passed  away  ;  a  good  deal  of  it 
was  spent  by  Mr.  Andrews  in  the  city. 
The  expected  guests  seemed  uncertain  in 
the  matter  of  appointments  ;  either  they 
didn't  know  their  own  minds,  or  they  were  trying  the 
mettle  of  their  future  host's  temper.  More  than  one 
night  he  had  stayed  in  town  to  meet  them  and  to  bring 
thorn  up,  but  after  a  shower  of  telegrams,  no  guests 
had  come.  At  last,  on  Friday  morning,  he  had  gone  to 
town,  and  told  the  servants  he  did  not  know  when  he 
should  be  back  ;  till  he  sent  a  telegram  they  need  not 
make  any  preparation  for  the  visitors. 

This  day  was  Jay's  birthday.  With  a  sore  heart, 
Missy  had  been  preparing  for  it.  She  was  making  this 
week  a  sort  of  valedictory.  Every  day  might  be  the 
last ;  Jay  would  never  be  hers  after  this.  And  he  had 
never  been  so  sweet  ;  he  was  gentle  and  good  and 
loving,  and  never  wanted  to  be  out  of  her  sight.  This 
birthday  they  had  been  talking  of  for  many  weeks. 
She  had  planned  an  ideal  treat  for  him  ;  when,  on  this 
fatal  Friday  morning,  she  woke  up  to  the  news  that 
one  of  their  own  servants  had  come  down  with  what 
might  be  a  case  of  scarlet  fever.  The  girl  was  care 
fully  quarantined.  Missy  had  not  been  near  her,  and 
did  not  propose  to  go  near  her,  but  it  broke  up  poor  little 
Jay's  party.  t  It  was  impossible  to  allow  children  to 
come  to  the  house.  She  took  him  out  for  a  drive,  and 


306  FIVE     CANDLES. 

all  that,  but  there  was  the  birthday  cake,  and  there 
were  the  candles,  and  there  were  all  the  pretty  little 
gifts  that  were  to  come  out  of  the  simulated  char 
lotte  russe.  They  must  have  a  feast,  nothing  else 
could  take  its  place.  So  that  afternoon  she  took  a 
sudden  resolution.  She  would  make  a  sacrifice  of  her 
own  feelings.  She  would  go  to  the  Andrews'  cottage 
and  give  Jay  his  fete  there. 

"  Do  you  think  it's  wise,  Missy?"  said  her  mother 
faintly. 

"  It's  kind,  at  all  events,"  returned  Missy.  "The 
poor  baby  is  going  to  have  hard  times  enough  with 
the  new  cousins,  it's  but  fair  his  last  birthday  without 
them  should  be  festive.  I've  sent  to  have  the  children 
I'd  invited  for  him  come  there.  Now,  .don't  look 
serious,  mamma.  One  must  not  be  always  thinking  of 
one's  self.  And  what  is  a  fiction  of  propriety,  com 
pared  with  Jay's  happiness?" 

"  Compared  with  his  permanent  happiness,  nothing, 
but  compared  with  an  afternoon's  pleasure,  a  good 
deal,  and  you've  been  so  rigid  yourself  about  it,  Missy. 
You've  eschewed  that  poor  cottage  like  a  pestilence. 
I  didn't  suppose  anything  would  tempt  you  into  it. 
You  felt  so  bitterly  about  our  staying  there,  though  you 
didn't  tell  me  ;  and  I'm  sure  you've  never  crossed  the 
threshold  since." 

"And  I  shouldn't  cross  it  now,  'but  that  the  master 
himself 's  away,  and— and  in  fact,  I  haven't  the  heart 
to  disappoint  the  child,  and  circumstances  seem  to 
make  it  my  duty  to  give  up  my  whim.  In  short, 
mamma,  it  is  too  late  to  be  sorry,  for  I've  sent  word  to 
the  children,  so  don't,  please,  worry  any  more  about 
it." 


FIVE     CANDLES.  307 

At  five  o'clock  the  children  came,  two  stout  little 
girls  with  hair  in  pigtails,  and  three  freckled  little 
boys  with  shaved  heads  ;  they  were  the  hopes  of  il 
lustrious  families. 

Missy  contrasted  them  with  Jay,  and  wondered 
that  any  one  could  endure  creatures  so  commonplace, 
and  that  patience  could  be  found  to  provide  them 
nourishment  and  clothing. 

Jay,  however,  seemed  to  like  them  very  much, 
and  that  gave  them  a  certain  importance  in  her  eyes. 
Gabrielle  interested  herself  deeply  in  the  attire  of  the 
little  girls,  and  the  "  party"  proceeded  with  great  suc 
cess  through  its  various  stages  of  shyness,  awkward 
advances,  rough  responses,  good  fellowship,  to  hilarious 
riot,  and  open  warfare.  They  had  a  series  of  games 
in  the  boat-house  till  six,  then  races  on  the  lawn  till 
nearly  seven,  when  Missy,  tired  of  adjusting  differences 
and  pinning  collars,  left  them  in  Eliza's  care,  and  went 
in  to  superintend  the  arrangement  of  the  tables  and  the 
darkening  of  the  windows,  so  that  the  candles  might 
be  lighted  at  half-past  seven  o'clock.  She  thought  less 
well  of  human  nature  than  usual  at  the  moment. 
Even  in  its  budding  infancy  it  could  be  so  disagreeable, 
and  its  innocence  was  so  far  from  pleasant,  what  would 
not  its  mature  development  be.  Jay  himself  had 
tired  her  out.  lie  had  been  willful,  selfish,  wanting  in 
love  to  her;  his  party  seemed  to  have  turned  him  into 
somebody  else.  She  again  concluded  he  wasn't  worth 
it  all  ;  but  since  she  had  begun  the  fete,  she  must  go 
through  with  it.  It  gave  her  rather  an  uncomfortable 
feeling  to  be  going  into  the  house  she  had  forsworn  so 
vehemently.  It  was  doubly  hard  now  that  Jay's  naugh 
tiness  had  taken  away  the  last  excuse  she  had  ;  he  cer- 


303  FIVE    CANDLES. 

had  not  enjoyed  himself  very  ranch,  had  not,  in  fact, 
had  so  many  fits  of  crying  and  got  into  so  many  pas 
sions  in  the  same  number  of  hours  since  Alphonaine 
went  away  last  autumn.  It  certainly  had  been  an 
ill-starred  birthday.  When  the  waitress  came  to  her 
for  directions  about  the  table-cloth,  she  felt  sure  she 
detected  a  smile  on  her  decorous  month,  and  when  the 
cook  put  her  head  in  at  the  door  and  begged  to  know 
if  Miss  Rothermel  wished  the  cold  chicken  sliced  or 
whole,  she  felt  all  through  her  that  there  was  a  shade 
of  disrespect  in  the  woman's  tones. 

"  I  am  sure,"  she  said,  "  I  know  nothing  about  all 
that.  I  suppose  you  will  give  them  something  for  tea, 
as  every  day,  and  I  will  arrange  for  them  the  cake, 
and  the  things  that  have  been  sent  over  from  my  house. 
Only  be  as  quick  as  you  can,  for  it  is  getting  late." 

The  servants  snubbed,  Missy  proceeded  to  arrange 
the  bonbons.  This  necessitated  going  to  the  china- 
closet  for  a  dish  to  put  them  on.  She  hated  this.  She 
wished  herself  out  of  the  place  ;  her  cheeks  c,«.e\v  scar 
let,  stumbling  about  among  his  plates  and  glasses,  his 
decanters  and  soup  tureens.  She  heard  low  talking  and 
laughing  in  the  kitchen.  What  a  fool  she  had  been 

O  O 

to  put  herself  in  this  position  !  What  did  Jay  have  a 
birthday  for,  and  t<jmpt  her  out  of  her  resolution? 
And  then  she  remembered  the  poor  young  mother,  the 
anniversary  of  whose  sufferings  they  were  keeping 
without  a  thought  of  her.  She  seemed  to  be  fading 
out  of  the  memories  of  all,  loving  and  unloving,  among 
whom,  only  a  year  ago,  she  had  had  her  place.  She 
was  no  more  than  a  name  now  to  her  children.  Who 
could  tell  whether  her  husband  remembered  her  de 
parture  with  relief  or  remorse,  or  remembered  her  at 


FIVE     CANDLES.  309 

all  ?  New  servants  moved  about  the  house  which  she 
had  left;  new  household  usages  prevailed  ;  nothing  of 
her  seemed  left.  Here  was  one  who  had  called  herself 
her  friend,  who  had  thought  of  her  for  the  first  time 
to-day — this  day,  which  her  throes  should  have  made 
sacred  to  her  memory. 

Missy  tried  to  catch  at  the  shadow  which  seemed 
passing  away  from  her ;  tried  to  realize  that  this 
woman  of  whom  she  thought,  had  been,  was,  the  wife 
of  the  man  whom  she  had  grown  to  like,  to  listen  to, 
to  wonder  about.  She  tried  to  remember  that  this 
dark-eyed,  pure-featured  picture  was  the  mother  of 
tawny,  snub-nosed,  ruddy  Jay  ;  but  it  was  all  a  pic 
ture,  an  effort  of  the  brain,  it  was  no  reality.  The 
reality  seemed,  Jay,  in  the  flesh,  she  who  felt  she 
owned  him,  and  the  father  about  whom  she  could  not 
keep  her  resolution,  and  the  household  which  she  had 
reconstructed. 

The  bonbons  looked  less  pretty  to  her  than  when 
she  bought  them  ;  she  wished  the  fete  was  over,  and 
she  herself  out  of  this  uncomfortable  house.  The 
waitress,  having  ended  her  little  gossip  in  the  kitchen, 
came  in  and  laid  the  cloth  and  closed  the  windows, 
and  lighted  a  lamp  or  two.  Missy  arranged  the  bon 
bons  and  the  flowers,  and  the  deceitful  charlotte  russe, 
with  its  cave  of  surprises.  It  was  nearly  half  past 
seven  o'clock,  and  she  put  the  cake  upon  the  table, 
and  proceeded  to  arrange  the  five  candles  around  it. 
Now,  every  one  who  has  put  candles  around  a  birthday 
cake  knows  that  it  is  a  business  not  devoid  of  difficul 
ties.  The  colored  wax  drips  on  the  table-cloth,  the 
icing  cracks  if  you  look  at  it,  the  candles  lean  this 
way  and  that,  the  paper  or  the  match  with  which  you 


310  FIVE     CANDLES. 

have  lighted  them,  drops  upon  the  linen  or  the  cake, 
and  makes  a  smutty  mark.  All  these  things  happened 
to  Miss  Rothorrael,  and  in  the  midst  of  it,  in  trooped 
the  impatient  children,  headed  by  Jay,  who  had  burst 
past  Eliza,  declaring  that  he  wouldn't  wait  a  minute 
longer.  The  sight  of  the  table  was  premature  ;  she 
did  not  mean  to  have  him  see  it  till  it  was  perfect. 
He  dragged  a  heavy  chair  up  beside  her,  climbed  up  on 
it,  tugged  at  her  dress,  pushed  her  elbow,  shrieked  in 
her  ear.  The  moment  was  an  unhappy  one  ;  Miss 
Rotherrnel  was  not  serene,  the  provocation  was  ex 
treme  ;  she  turned  short  upon  him,  boxed  his  ears, 
took  him  by  the  arms  and  set  him  down  upon  the 
floor. 

"  You're  such  a  little  torment,"  she  said,  "  there 
is  no  pleasure  in  doing  anything  for  you." 

Jay  roared,  the  sudden,  short  roar  of  good-natured 
passion  ;  the  children  crowded  round.  Missy  told 
them  to  stand  back,  while  she  bent  forward  to  rescue 
a  candle,  tottering  to  its  fall.  Jay  hushed  his  howls, 
intent  upon  the  candle  ;  the  children  were  all  around 
Missy,  with  their  backs  to  the  door.  Gabrielle  had 
gone  around  to  the  other  side  of  the  table,  facing  the 
door,  and  was  leaning  forward  on  her  e.bows,  gazing 
silently,  not  at  Missy,  but  beyond  her.  The  candle 
nodded  over  the  wrong  way,  a  great  blot  of  green 
wax  dropped  upon  the  table-cloth.  Jay  screamed 
with  excitement,  and  made  a  dash  forward  to  get  his 
hands  in  the  wax. 

Missy  stamped  with  her  foot  upon  the  floor — ah  ! 
that  it  must  be  told  ! — and  slapped  his  hands  and 
pushed  him  back.  And  then  the  sudden  green  gleam 
in  Gabby's  eyes  made  her  start  and  look  behind  her. 


FIVE     CANDLES.  311 

There  in  the  door  stood — Mr.  Andrews  and  two  ladies. 
Plow  long  they  had  been  there,  who  can  tell?  There 
was  a  look  of  amusement  on  his  face,  a  look  of  eager 
curiosity  on  the  faces  of  the  strangers.  The  hall  was 
not  lighted,  the  parlor  was  not  lighted — the  dining- 
room  was,  in  contrast,  quite  brilliant,  and  the  decorated 
table  and  the  group  of  children  quite  a  picture.  Missy 
was  not  capable  of  speaking,,  for  a  moment.  She 
caught  the  candle  and  blew  it  out,  and  tried  to  find 
her  voice,  which  seemed  to  have  been  blown  out,  too. 

"  What  a  charming  picture,"  cried  the  young  lady. 
"This,  I  know,  is  Miss  Rothermel — and  which  are  tny 
little  cousins  ? — ah,  this  must  be  Jay — he  is  your  image, 
Mr.  Andrews,"  and  she  flew  upon  him  with  kisses, 
while  the  mother,  singling  out  a  stout,  little  girl,  with  a 
pigtail,  not  unlike  him  in  feature,  embraced  her  as 
Gabrielle.  While  this  mistake  was  being  rectified, 
and  the  correct  Gabrielle  being  presented  to  her  cous 
ins,  Missy  recovered  herself  enough  to  turn  to  Mr. 
Andrews  and  tell  him  she  did  not  think  he  was  coming 
home  that  night. 

"  The  telegram  wasn't  received  then  ?  I  sent  it  at 
ten  o'clock  this  morning." 

No,  no  telegram  had  been  received.  The  waitress 
was  standing  by,  the  picture  of  consternation,  and  cor 
roborated  the  statement  incoherently.  Missy  then  ex 
plained  as  well  as  she  could,  her  presence  in  the  house, 
but  nobody  seemed  to  listen  to  her  ;  the  iadies  were  so 
engrossed  with  caressing  the  children,  they  did  not 
heed.  Mr.  Andrews  himself  seemed  not  at  all  to  be 
interested  in  any  fact  but  that  the  children  were  hav 
ing  a  good  rime,  and  that  to  balance  it  was  the  com 
panion  fact  that  there  was  no  dinner  ready. 


312  FIVE    CANDLES. 

The  cook  was  looking  through  the  kitchen  door, 
which  was  ajar,  with  a  bewildered  face.  The  birthday 
cake  and  the  bonbons  were  a  mockery,  no  doubt,  to  the 
hungry  travelers.  Missy  wished  the  cake  and  the 
travelers  in  the  Red  Sea  together. 

"  How  charming,"  said  Miss  Eustace,  rising  from 
her  knees  before  Jay,  and  looking  at  the  table.  "  How 
charming  it  is,  and  how  good  of  you,  Miss  Rothermel. 
Mamma,  is  she  not  good  ?  Think  of  giving  up  all 
that  time  for  a  little  child  who  never  can  repay  you  ! ' 

"Miss  Rothermel  is  unselfish,"  said  the  mother,  re 
leasing  Gabby  from  a  final  embrace.  "  Jay  ought  to 
love  her  very  much.  Jay,  you  do,  I  know.  Tell  Miss 
Rothermel  you  love  her." 

"  And  thank  her  for  the  party,"  cried  the  daughter, 
stooping  over  him  with  irrepressible  fondness,  again.  . 

"  I  won't,"  said  Jay,  stoutly,  pulling  himself  away. 
"It's  none  of  you's  business." 

"  Jay  !"  cried  his  father. 

But  Missy  moved  forward,  as  if  to  protect  him,  and 
said,  "  lie  only  means  that  he  and  I  can  settle  our  ac 
counts  together.  Can't  we.  Jay  ?" 

Jay  did  not  answer  otherwise  than  by  clutching  at 
her  gown  and  scowling  back  at  the  honeyed  cousins. 
How  sweet  it  was,  that  iit.tle  fist  tight  in  her  dress  ; 
Missy  felt  it  almost  made  up  for  the  whole  affair,  and 
gave  her  resolution  to  make  another  and  more  definite 
apology  for  being  there. 

"I  am  sure,"  cried  Miss  Eustace,  ''  you  are  unself 
ish,  indeed.  There  isn't  one  young  woman  in  a  hun 
dred  would  have  done  it  ;  taking  all  that  trouble, 
and  coming  over  here  by  yourself, — without  a  lady  in 
the  house,  I  mean,  you  know,  and  all  that — and  not 


FIVE     CANDLES.  313 

minding  about  us,  and  not  standing  on  conventional 
ities,  and  such  tiresome  tilings.  Ob,  Miss  Rothermel, 
I  am  sure  we  shall  be  friends.  I  hate  proprieties,  and 
I  love  to  do  what  comes  into  my  head.  I  am  so  bored 
with  the  restrictions  that  mamma  is  insisting  on  for 
ever." 

Miss  Rothermel  changed  color  several  times  during 

o  o 

this  speech.  It  seemed  to  her  she  had  never  been  BO 
angry  before ;  one's  youngest  grievance  is  always 
one's  greatest,  however.  Perhaps  she  had  hated  peo 
ple  as  much  before,  but  it  did  not  seem  so  to  her.  She 
could  not  say  anything,  but  she  moved  towards  the 
door,  stooping  down  to  loosen  Jay's  hands  from  her 
dress. 

"  I  am  very  sorry,"  she  said  to  Mr.  Andrews,  "  to 
have  been  the  means  of  interfering  with  your  dinner. 
I  hope  the  cook  will  be  able  to  get  something  ready  for 
you." 

"  You  are  not  going  away  ?"  said  Mr.  Andrews, 
anxiously. 

"  The  children  will  be  so  disappointed,"  said  Mrs. 
Eustace.  "  We  are  not  used  to  them  enough  to  make 
them  happy,  yet.  Do  stay,  Miss  Rothermel.  It  is  no 
matter  at  all  about  dinner.  I  was  thinking  if  the  cook 
would  make  some  tea  and  an  omelette,  and  put  some 
plates  on  for  us,  we  could  all  sit  down,  birthday  and 
all,  and  make  our  meal.  I  think  I'd  better  go  out  and 
speak  to  her  about  it — or — or — perhaps  you  will  go, 
Miss  Rothermel  ?" 

Missy  bit  her  lip,  and  did  not  answer,  but  passed 

on  towards  the  door,  and  her  hand  was  unsteady  as  she 

opened  it.      Jay    set  up  a  howl,  feeling  that    things 

were  wrong.     But  putting  it  upon  his  desire  for  cake, 

14 


314  FIVE     CANDLES. 

Miss  Eustace  darted  forward,  and  gave  him  a  handful 
of  bonbons,  to  pacify  him,  and  taking  up  a  knife,  was 
going  to  cut  the  cake.  But  Jay,  who  had  correct  feel 
ings  about  the  cake,  only  howled  the  louder,  and  struck 

O  •*  v 

out  at  her  so  handsomely  that  she  was  fain  to  give  it 
up.  She  overcame,  with  great  discretion,  a  very  angry 
look  that  came  into  her  eyes,  and  laid  down  the  knife, 
and,  wreathed  in  smiles,  threw  him  a  kiss,  and  said  they 
would  be  better  friends  to-morrow.  She  was  afraid  of 
attempting  to  offer  the  kiss  more  practically,  as  Master 
Jay's  fists  were  heavy,  for  fi^ts  which  had  only  been  at  it 
for  five  years.  Nobody  but  Missy  knew  why  he  was 
howling,  or  what  he  meant  by  his  incoherent  demands. 

"  Oh,  I  see,"  she  said,  turning  back  with  a  smile. 
"  He  thinks  no  one  else  should  cut  his  cake.  Well, 
Jay,  I'll  cut  it  for  you,  and  be  sure  you  tell  me  to 
morrow  who  has  got  the  ring." 

Jay's  screams  subsided,  and  in  a  silence  born  of  ex 
pectation,  Miss  Rothermel  stepped  forward  and  took 
up  the  knife.  It  was  inevitable  that  the  new-comers 
were  taking  her  measure.  And  it  is  pleasant  to  relate 
that,  pleased  by  Jay's  loyalty,  her  face  was  bright,  and 
almost  pretty  at  the  moment,  and  she  was  always 
graceful  and  her  figure  admirable.  She  leaned  over 
the  table,  and  cut  the  cake,  and  gave  Jay  his  piece,  and 
with  great  promptness,  withdrew  to  the  door  again, 
leaving  Miss  Eustace  to  take  her  place,  and  put  the  re 
maining  pieces  of  cake  into  the  greedy  hands  held  out 
for  them. 

"  I  dou't  want  you  to  go  away  from  me,"  cried  Jay 
above  the  stillness,  with  his  mouth  full  of  cake,  and  his 
eyes  full  of  tears. 

"  Oh,  but  I  must,"  said  Missy,  giving  him   a  kiss, 


FIVE     CANDLES.  315 

"  and  remember  to  tell  me  who  gets  the  ring.     Good 
night," 

With  a  sweeping  good-night  to  all  the  party, 
she  went  out  before  he  could  get  up  another  roar. 
Mr.  Andrews  followed  her,  though  she  was  half 
way  down  the  path  before  he  overtook  her.  It  was 
nearly  August,  and  the  days  were  already  J>egin- 
ning  to  show  the  turn  of  the  season.  It  was  quite 
dark,  coming  from  the  lighted  room. 

"  I  must  beg  you  won't  come  any  further  with  me," 
said  Missy,  at  the  gate.  "  It  is  quite  light,  and  I  am 
in  the  habit  of  walking  all  about  the  place  at  night." 

"  You  must  allow  me,"  said  Mr.  Andrews,  not  go 
ing  back  at  all. 

"I  think  you  are  needed  to  keep  the  children  in 
order,  and  I  am  sure  you  ought  to  go  back  and  see 
about  some  dinner  for  those  ladies,  since  you've 
brought  them  here,"  said  Missy  firmly,  pulling  the  gate 
after  her,  and  looking,  at  Mr.  Andrews  from  the  other 
side  of  it 

"  I  have  no  doubt  they'll  see  about  it  themselves, 
they  know  more  about  it  than  I  do.  And  I  want  to 
thank  you,  Miss  Rothermel,  for  remembering  Jay's 
birthday,  for  I  am  ashamed  to  say  I  had  forgotten  it 
myself.  The  poor  boy  would  have  had  a  dismal  time 
if  it  had  not  been  for  you.  I'm  always  having  to  thank 
you,  you  see." 

"  I  don't  see  why  you  should  be  at  that  pains.  I 
didn't  do  it  for — for  anybody  but  Jay,  and  he  and  I 
can  settle  our  little  account  between  ourselves,  as  I 
told  the  new  cousin  just  now.  Good-night,"  and 
before  Mr.  Andrews  could  open  the  gate,  she  \vas 
swallowed  up  by  the  darkness  and  the  shrubbery,  and 


316  FIVE     CANDLES. 

he  was  obliged  to  go  home,  which  he  did  slowly  and  in 
some  perplexity.  He  could  only  hope  his  cousins 
would  not  be  as  difficult  to  comprehend  as  his  neigh 
bor  was. 

As  for  Missy,  she  came  in  with  flushed  cheeks  and 
threw  herself  down  on  the  seat  beside  her  mother's 
eofa. 

"  Aunt  Harriet  has  not  come  down  ?  That  is  the 
first  thing  that  has  gone  right  to-day.  I've  got  so 
much  to  tell  you.  Mamma,  they've  come — the  new 
cousins,  I  mean — right  in  the  midst  of  the  birthday 
party,  and  no  dinner  ready  for  them,  and  everything 
about  as  bad  for  me  as  it  could  be." 

"  Now,  I  suppose  you  wish  you  had  been  contented 
to  stay  at  home  as  I  advised  you.  It  was  unfortunate. 
Did  Mr.  Andrews  come  with  them,  and  how  did  it 
happen  that  they  were  not  expected  ?" 

"  Oh,  the  telegram  never  was  delivered,  and  they  ar 
rived  in  the  last  train,  without  any  carriage  to  meet 
them,  and  trundled  down  four  miles  in  the  stage,  and 
arrived  hungry  and  tired,  to  find  all  the  house  dark 
but  the  dining-room,  and  a  table  full  of  bonbons  and 
birthday  fripperies,  in  place  of  the  solid  cheer  that  the 
solid  host  delights  in.  .lay  met  them  with  howls,  and 
kicked  the  young  lady  till  she  could  have  cried  ;  but 
Gabrielle  made  up  in  sweetness  for  the  party,  in 
genuous  child  that  she  is  !" 

"  I  suppose  there  is  no  use  in  asking  if  you  like 
them  ;  you  had  made  up  your  mind  on  that  point  long 
before  you  saw  them  !" 

"  I  hate  them.  I  didn't  suppose  I  could  detest  any 
one  so  much.  They  are  ready  to  open  the  war  at  once. 
They  haven't  even  the  grace  to  wait  and  see  whether  I 


FIVE     CANDLES.  317 

mean  to  make  fight  or  not.  They  are  bent  upon  one 
thing,  making  a  conquest  of  the  stout  Adonis,  and  se 
curing  themselves  permanently  in  charge  of  his  estab 
lishment.  They  flew  upon  the  children  with  kisses 
before  they  had  seen  whether  they  were  oafs  or  angels  ; 
they  opened  their  batteries  on  me  before  they  knew 
whether  I  was  an  enemy  or  not.  The  mother  assumed 
the  charge  of  the  house  before  she  had  been  five  min 
utes  in  it  ;  the  daughter  had  flattered  Mr.  Andrews 
and  both  the  children  ad  nauseam  before  she  took  her 
bonnet  off.  Jay  is  to  be  Mademoiselle's  pet,  by  ar 
rangement,  because  they  have  discovered  that  he  is  his 
father's  favorite.  Gabrielle  falls  to  Madame's  share, 
and  a  nice  time  may  she  have  of  it,  petting  a  green 
snake.  They  had  heard  enough  of  me  to  know  I 
might  be  dangerous  ;  and  they  hadn't  sense  to  wait 
and  to  see  whether  I  were  or  not.  It  is  war  to  the 
knife,  and  now  I  don't  care  how  soon  they  bring  on 
their  heaviest  guns." 

"Your  metaphor  is  a  little  mixed,  my  dear  ;  I  am 
afraid  you  are  not  as  cool  as  could  be  wished." 

"  Ice  wouldn't  be  cool  in  such  a  company.  You  are 
long  past  hating  any  one,  I  know,  but  even  you  would 
have  had  some  difficulty  in  keeping  yourself  charitable 
if  you  had  heard  that  young  woman's  oily  insolence  to 
me.  She  is  sure  we  shall  be  such  friends,  for  she  too  is 
unconventional  and  fond  of  improprieties.  She  would 
think  it  a  fine  lark  to  be  free  of  a  gentleman's  house 
while  he  was  away  from  it ;  she  is  so  artless,  no  one 
knows  what  she  might  not  do  if  she  had  not  dear 
mamma  to  watch  her.  Gushing  young  thing  ;  she  needs 
such  care.  She  looks  twenty-five,  but  I  am  prepared 
to  celebrate  her  eighteenth  birthday  before  the  sum- 


318  FIVE     CANDLES. 

mer  passes.  I  heard  her  telling  Jay  to  gue^s  how 
many  candles  she  would  have  to  get  for  her  cake.  I 
am  afraid  he  said  more  than  she  thought  compliment 
ary,  for  she  changed  the  subject  very  quickly,  and 
told  him  that  she  had  some  candy  for  him  in  her 
trunk.  He  had  just  had  a  surfeit  of  candy,  and 
he  told  her,  to  my  delight,  he  didn't  want  her  candy, 
that  he  had  plenty  of  his  own.  Wasn't  it  nice  of  him? 
That's  what  I  call  a  discriminating  child,  mamma.  It 
isn't  every  boy  of  five  who  knows  a  possible  step 
mother  when  he  sees  her.  I  am  proud  of  Jay.  I  wish  I 
were  as  confident  of  his  father's  discretion.  Poor  man, 
how  he  will  be  cajoled  !  How  he  will  learn  to  rever 
ence  the  opinion  of  Mrs.  Eustace,  how  he  will  dote  on 
the  airy  graces  of  the  daughter.  I  wish  you  could  see 
them,  mamma.  They  rather  affect  the  attitude  of  sis 
ters.  If  it  were  not  for  the  superior  claims  of  the 
daughter,  I  am  sure  the  mother  is  capable  of  aspir 
ing  to  the  post  herself.  I  should  not  wonder  if  it  were 
left  an  open  question  with  them,  which  one  of  them 
should  have  him.  Mrs.  Eustace  certainly  is  young- 
looking,  but  she  is  stout.  The  daughter  is  ridiculously 
like  her  ;  you  seem  to  jump  over  twenty  years  as  you 
look  from  one  to  the  other  ;  the  same  figure,  but  a  little 
stouter,  the  same  hair,  but  a  little  thinner,  the  same 
eyes,  but,  gone  a  little  deeper  in,  the  same  complexion, 
but  a  little  thickened,  the  same  smile,  but  a  little 
more  effort  in  getting  it  to  come.  They  are  about  the 
same  height,  and  they  wreathe  their  arms  about  each 
other,  and  smile  back  and  forward,  and  pose  and 
prattle  like  a  vaudeville." 

"  Really,   my  dear,  you   made  good  use   of   your 


FIVE     CANDLES.  319 

time.  Flow  many  minutes  were  you  iti  their  company, 
I  should  like  to  know  ?" 

"  They  arrived  about  twenty  minutes  before  eight, 
— it  is  now  ten  minutes  past.  I'll  at  is  just  how  long  I 
have  known  them." 

"  Well,  dear,  for  half  an  hour,  I  think  you  arc 
rather  venomous.  But  though  I  don't  take  your  judg 
ment  of  them  altogether,  I  wish  they  hadn't  seen  fit  to 
accept  Mr.  Andrews'  invitation,  or  that  Mr.  Andrews 
hadn't  seen  fit  to  offer  them  an  invitation.  Don't  let 
it  all  bother  you,  Missy.  It  has  been  rather  a  muddle 
from  the  beginning.  I  think  you'll  have  to  make  up 
your  mind  to  let  Jay  go,  though  it  will  be  pretty 
hard." 

"Hard!"  cried  Missy,  bitterly.  "But  of  course, 
I've  made  up  rny  mind  to  it.  I  went  through  it  all 
that  evening  on  the  lawn,  when  Mr.  Andrews  told  us 
that  they  were  to  come.  It  is  but  with  one  object 
that  he  brought  them,  it  will  have  but  one  end." 

"  I  don't  believe  that  he  brought  them  with  this 
object,  but  I  acknowledge  that  it  may  possibly  end  in 
giving  the  poor  little  fellow  a  stepmother.  I  am 
afraid  he  is  the  sort  of  man  that  is  easily  taken  in." 

Missy's  face  expressed  scorn. 

"Yes,  he  is  just  that  sort  of  man,  and  if  he  didn't 
drag  poor  Jay  in  with  him,  I  should  say  I  was  glad  he 
had  got  the  fate  that  he  deserved." 

"  Hardly  that,  Missy.  He  lias  always  been  very 
nice  to  you,  and  I  can't  think  why  you  feel  so  towards 
him.  But  I've  always  felt  it  was  a  mistake  for  people 
to  garner  up  their  hearts  in  other  people's  children, 
and  I've  wished,  from  the  beginning,  that  you  cared 


320  THE    HONEYED     COUSINS. 

less  for  the  boy.     Give  it  up  now,  dear,  and  mike  up 
your  mind  to  interest  yourself  in  other  tilings." 

"That's  very  easy  to  say.  I've  made  up  my  mind 
so  a  hundred  times  in  the  last  week,  but  it  doesn't  stay 
made  up,  and  I  shall  go  on  caring  for  him  till  he's  taken 
away  from  me,  and  a  good  while  after,  I'm  afraid." 


CHAPTER    XX. 

THE  HONEYED   COUSINS. 

T  the  end  of  two  weeks,  Missy's  opinion  of 
the  new  comers  had  suffered  no  change, 
and  her  mother's  had  not  improved.  Miss 
Rot  her  me! ,  after  she  had  seen  them  drive 
out  one  day,  took  occasion  to  go  to  the  house  and  leave 
Mrs.  and  Miss  Varian's  cards,  and  her  own.  This 
visit  had  been  very  promptly  returned  by  the  two 
ladies,  whom  Missy  had  not  been  as  happy  in  escaping 
in  her  own  house,  as  in  theirs.  Mrs.  Varian  also  saw 
them  ;  they  were  effusive,  cordial  to  suffocation, 
adroit  ;  they  had  evidently  changed  their  minds  about 
the  war,  and  meant  to  know  the  ground  better  before 
they  engaged  the  enemy.  She  found  them  clever  and 
amusing  ;  they  had  traveled  a  good  deal,  and  seen 
much  of  the  world.  They  were  also  superficially  cul 
tivated,  and  were  familiar  with  some  of  the  outposts 
of  art  and  literature.  They  had  studied  and  read  just 
enough  to  make  them  glib,  and  they  had  tact  enough 
not  to  go  beyond  their  depth.  Many  a  deep  and  quiet 


THE    HONEYED     COUSINS.  321 

student  had  been  abashed  before  the  confident  facility 
of  the  pretty  Flora  in  the  ateliers  where  she  had 
studied  abroad  ;  and  at  home,  it  is  needless  to  say  she 
overwhelmed  her  cotemporaries  with  her  advantages 
and  her  successes.  What  she  could  not  decently  relate, 
herself,  of  these  and  of  her  social  triumphs,  her  mother 
related  for  her.  The  daughter,  in  return,  told  of  her 
mother's  wonderful  abilities  and  influence  ;  of  the 
Countess  This's  friendship  for  her,  the  Lady  That's 
indebtedness  ;  there  was  nothing  wanting  to  fill  up 
the  picture.  They  did  not  spare  details  ;  in  fact,  after 
awhile,  the  details  became  a  great  bore,  though  at  first 
they  amused  everybody,  whether  everybody  believed  in 
them  or  not.  In  short,  they  were  not  first  class  artists 
in  puff,  only  clever  amateurs  ;  but  in  a  country  where 
this  art  is  in  its  infancy,  they  imposed  upon  a  good 
many. 

Missy  often  had  occasion  to  wonder  whether  Mr. 
Andrews  was  imposed  upon  or  not ;  he  of  course 
might  want  to  marry  his  cousin,  without  believing  that 
so  many  other  people  had  wanted  to.  But  she  longed 
to  know  whether  he  saw  through  their  palpable  little 
feminine  schemes,  whether  he  knew  them  for  the  cheats 
the}'  were,  and  was  just  going  into  it  because  he  was 
fascinated  with  the  young  woman's  pretty  looks  and 
sprightly  ways,  and  because  the  older  woman  knew 
how  to  order  him  good  dinners  and  keep  the  children 
quiet. 

For,  that  he  was  going  into  it,  she  would  not  permit 
herself  to  doubt.  lie  looked  rather  preoccupied  and 
uncomfortable  when  she  saw  him.  He  had  come  over 
one  evening  alone,  to  pi-opose  some  drive  or  expedition, 
in  which  she  had  promptly  refused  to  take  part.  An- 
14* 


322  THE    II  OBEYED     COUSINS. 

other  evening,  he  had  come  accompanied  by  Miss  Flora, 
who  had  made  a  jest  of  her  unconventionality,  and  had 
been  pert  and  lively  to  an  astonishing  degree,  but  who 
had  wished  herself  away  many  times  before  the  call 
was  over,  and  who  had  said  bitter  things  to  her  escort 
about  the  stiff  household,  on  her  way  home.  The 
evenings  at  the  beach  gate  were  at  an  end  ;  the  dis 
tance  between  the  two  houses  had  grown  into  a  chasm. 
The  children,  ah  !  that  was  the  hardest  part,  came  less 
and  less  frequently,  and  Jay  was  as  spoiled  and  changed 
as  Missy,  in  her  greatest  despondency,  had  imagined. 
Continued  petting  and  present-giving  had  established 
a  certain  tie  between  him  and  his  cousin,  and  the  sight 
of  Missy  always  seemed  to  stir  up  all  the  evil  in  him, 
or  perhaps  all  the  contradictory  good.  At  all  events, 
he  was  so  palpably  bad  with  her,  that  he  gave  a  text 
that  Mrs.  Eustace  was  not  slack  in  preaching  on — to 
wit,  her  pernicious  influence  upon  him.  Mr.  Andrews 
was  a  silent  man  ;  he  did  not  say  amen  to  any  of  these 
comminations,  neither  did  he  contradict  them. 

The  chasm  between  the  two  houses  hourly  grew  in 
breadth.  Miss  Rothermel  had  never  called  after  the  first. 
All  the  advances  had  to  be  made  by  the  new-comers. 
Miss  Varian  had,  indeed,  been  rather  troublesome, 
and  had  invited  the  young  lady  to  read  to  her,  and  that 
had  been  the  excuse  for  several  morning  visits.  But 
even  her  persistence  was  not  proof  against  the  coldness 
of  the  young  lady  of  the  house,  and  finally  she  ceased 
to  come  at  all.  The  people  in  the  neighborhood  had 
called  upon  them,  and  they  had  been  invited  to  what 
ever  was  going  on,  which,  though  it  was  not  much, 
was  enough  to  keep  their  spirits  up.  They  were  quite 
popular,  the  mother  was  called  a  charming  person,  the 


THE    HONEYED     COUSINS.  323 

daughter  extremely  clever,  playing  like  an  artist,  paint 
ing  like  a  genius,  and  with  such  lovely  manners,  too. 
Of  course,  every  one  said  Mr.  Andrews  would  marry 
her,  or  break  his  heart  about  her.  They  wondered  how 
Miss  Rothermel  would  take  it,  and  Miss  Flora  was  not 
slow  to  express  to  everybody  to  whom  she  had  a  chance 
to  express  it,  her  regret  that  Miss  Rothermel  did  not 
seem  to  like  her,  and  her  innocent  wonder  what  could 
be  the  cause. 

"For  I  am  not  used  to  being  snubbed,"  she  would 
say.  "  I  don't  know  why  it  is,  but  people  generally 
seem  to  like  me.  I  suppose  it's  because  I'm  good- 
natured,  and  don't  make  any  trouble.  I  know,  of 
course,  it's  nothing  in  me  different  from  other  people  ; 
it's  only  that  I'm  happy  and  all  that.  But  Miss  Roth 
ermel  seems  to  hate  me,  actually.  She  really  is  quite 
rude  ;  and  I  may  say  it  to  you,  scarcely  lady-like  in  her 
treatment  of  me.  Mamma  is  so  incensed  about  it,  and 
I  think  it  troubles  Mr.  Andrews,  who  is  so  kind,  and 
wants  our  summer  here  to  be  without  a  cloud.  But  it 
isn't  worth  thinking  about.  I  can't  help  being  happy, 
and  having  a  beatific  time,  even  if  she  isn't  pleased 
about  it." 

Sailing  parties,  and  drives,  and  whist  and  sketching 
parties  had  all  been  refused  by  the  severe  little  lady 
next  door  ;  but  at  last  there  came  an  invitation  which 
she  made  up  her  mind  to  accept.  It  was  to  dinner, 
and  Mrs.  Varian  had  said  it  must  be  done.  She  was 
troubled  a  little  at  the  attitude  in  which  Missy  had 
placed  herself,  though  she  could  not  help  sympathizing 
with  her  in  her  dislike  of  the  two  strangers. 

"  Am  I  line  enough,  mamma  ?  "  said  Missy,  pre 
senting  herself  before  her  mother,  at  seven  o'clock,  one 


324  THE    HONEYED     COUSINS. 

evening  the  latter  part  of  August.  She  was  fine,  in 
deed,  in  a  pale  grey  dress,  with  a  train  that  was  impos 
ing,  and  sleeves  to  the  elbow,  with  beautiful  lace,  and 
an  open  throat  with  lace,  and  lovely  stockings,  and  the 
most  bewildering  little  shoes.  She  had  a  string  of 
pearls  around  her  neck,  and  gloves  with  no  end  of  but 
tons,  and  a  great  color  on  her  cheeks,  and  a  deal  of 
light  in  her  pale  eyes. 

"Am  I  fine  enough,  mamma?" 

"  Fine  enough,  my  dear  ?  you  are  actually  pretty  ; 
I  wish  you  did  not  have  to  go  away.  I  should  like  to 
look  at  you  all  the  evening." 

Miss  Flora  was  not  able  to  wear  pearls  of  that  mag 
nitude,  nor  lace  of  that  value  ;  she  dressed  strikingly, 
but  of  necessity,  rather  cheaply,  and  her  cheap  finery 
galled  her,  in  the  presence  of  such  elegance.  Missy 
looked  much  better  than  usual  ;  Flora  looked  much 
worse,  having  sailed  with  Mr.  Andrews  all  the  morn 
ing,  till  she  had  a  red  tinge  on  her  nose,  and  a  swollen 
look  about  her  eyelids  and  lips.  The  wind  had  been 
very  strong  and  the  sun  very  bright,  and  Miss  Flora 
had  forgotten  to  put  on  a  veil.  She  had  had  a  very 
nice  sail,  but — it  was  unfortunate  that  there  was  to  be 
dinner  company  that  evening.  Darkness  and  cold 
cream  would  have  put  her  all  right,  if  she  could  have 
taken  refuge  in  them  instead  of  facing  all  that  light 
and  all  those  people. 

The  mother  also  was  a  little  fretted  at  some  of  the 
domestic  arrangements.  The  cook  had  given  warning 
that  morning,  and  the  waitress  was  doing  her  worst  ; 
the  gardener  had  insulted  her  point-blank,  and  the  gro 
cer  and  the  butcher  hadn't  kept  their  word.  Mr.  An 
drews  liked  a  good  dinner  and  no  bother  ;  it  was  but 


THE    HONEYED     COUSINS.  325 

too  probable  that  he  wouldn't  have  the  one  to-day,  and 
would  have  the  other  to-morro\v,  when  the  servants 
came  to  him  with  their  grievances.  When  to  this  was 
added  the  inflamed  state  of  Flora's  complexion,  she 
felt  as  if  her  cup  were  full,  and  her  eyes  were  spiteful 
as  they  dwelt  on  Missy,  though  her  smiles  were  boun 
tiful. 

Mr.  Andrews  was  silent,  after  he  had  spoken  to 
Missy  on  her  arrival,  and  they  all  stood  about  the  room 
aimlessly,  before  dinner  was  ready.  If  Mrs.  Eustace 
had  stood  in  a  nearer  relation  to  him,  what  a  sharp  little 
shot  he  would  have  had  in  his  ear  for  not  talking  to  his 
guests  !  lie  had  been  talking,  quite  respectably,  for 
him,  to  one  of  the  Miss  Olors,  when  Miss  Rothermel 
came  in.  Since  that  occurrence  he  had  been  silent,  and 
Flora  had  had  to  speak  to  him  twice  before  he  could 
be  made  even  to  look  at  her.  This  gave  a  sharp  little 
ring  to  the  young  lady's  laugh,  but  he  did  not  remark 
it,  probably. 

When  dinner  was  announced,  he  went  straight  to 
Miss  Rothermel  and  offered  his  arm.  But  Mrs.  Eustace 
pressed  forward  and  told  him  he  had  forgotten,  and 
that  he  was  to  take  Miss  Olor  in.  She  laughed  and 
told  Miss  Rothermel  she  hoped  she  would  excuse  him  ; 
he  was  the  most  absent  of  men. 

"  Dear  Mr.  Andrews,"  she  said,  "never  remembers 
the  claim  of  young  girls  ;  Flora  and  Lily  Olor  sat  by 
themselves  all  last  evening  while  he  entertained  Mrs. 
Eve  and  her  sister.  Duty  is  always  first." 

"  Oil,  then  I  am  duty?"  murmured  Missy,  drawing 
back,  hardly  knowing  what  she  said.  Mr.  Andrews 
stood  speechless  with  an  awkwardness  worthy  of  a 


326  THE    HONEYED     COUSINS. 

younger  man,  waiting  to  ki.ow  whom  he  was  to  take  if 
he  was  not  to  take  Miss  Rothermel. 

"  I  don't  mean,  dear  Miss  Rothermel,"  she  cried, 
"that  it  wouldn't  be  a  pleasure  to  take  you.  We  all 
know  nobody  can  talk  half  so  well  or  knows  half  so 
much.  But  Dr.  Rogers  is  to  have  that  pleasure,  and 
Miss  Lily  falls  to  Mr.  Andrews'  share.  You  know,  dear 
Mr.  Andrews,  we  talked  it  all  over  this  morning,  but  you 
are  so  forgetful." 

Mr.  Andrews  said  to  himself,  "  We  didn't  do  any 
thing  of  the  kind  ;"  but  it  wasn't  exactly  the  thing  to 
say  aloud,  and  he  was  obliged  to  content  himself  with 
taking  pretty  Miss  Olor  and  seeing  Miss  Rothermel 
made  over  to  the  doctor,  who  had  already  diffused 
an  odor  of  paregoric  and  rhubarb  through  the  room. 

Now  the  doctor  was  not  a  man  generally  invited 
out  to  dinner  at  Yellowcoats.  He  was  underbred  and 
elderly,  and  rather  stupid.  He  did  not  expect  to  be  in 
vited,  and  nobody  could  have  been  more  surprised  than 
he  to  receive  this  invitation.  He  was  indebted  to  his 
middle-agedness  for  it,  and  to  his  stupidity.  Mrs. 
Eustace  thought  he  would  be  a  charming  neighbor  for 
Miss  Rothermel,  and  the  fact  that  he  was  a  widower 
made  it  a  beautiful  satire. 

The  clergyman  of  the  parish  took  in  Mrs.  Eustace 
to  dinner  ;  next  to  him  came  Missy,  and  then  the  doc 
tor.  Opposite,  were  a  mamma  and  a  papa  of  the  young 
people  at  the  other  end  of  the  table — a  mamma,  that 
is,  of  one,  and  a  papa  of  another.  At  Mr.  Andrews' 
end  of  the  table  they  were  all  young  and  vivacious  : 
two  young  Olors,  two  young  men  from  town,  and  Miss 
Flora,  who  was  youth  itself.  They  were  very  vivacious 
— a  thought  too  much  so,  for  beings  who  were  out  of 


THE    HONEYED     COUSINS.  327 

school.  They  laughed  and  talked  about  things  which 
seemed  to  have  grown  up  during  their  mushroom  sum 
mer  intimacy.  Xobody  could  have  seen  any  thing  to 
laugh  at  in  what  they  laughed  about  ;  their  manners 
put  every  one  else  outside.  Mr.  Andrews  seemed  to 
be  within  the  circle  ;  he  had  heard  the  jokes  so  often, 
he  seemed  to  understand  them,  and  though  it  was 
possible  that  he  was  bored,  he  recovered  himself  suf 
ficiently  to  be  civil.  Mrs.  Eustace's  end  of  the  table 
was  a  notable  contrast,  as  it  was  meant  to  be.  She 
had  been  obliged  to  ask  Missy  (for  whom  in  fact  the 
dinner  was  given),  but  she  had  planned  to  make  her 
as  uncomfortable  as  possible. 

The  reverend  gentleman  was  not  a  conversational 
ist,  the  medical  one  was  heavier  than  lead.  The  mamma 
and  papa  were  solid  and  undertook  their  dinner  mate 
rially.  Mrs.  Eustace  made  talk  diligently.  She  ques 
tioned  the  clergyman  about  his  Sunday  school,  the 
doctor  about  his  patients,  she  appealed  to  Miss  Roth- 
ermel  and  the  mamma  opposite  about  subjects  of 
domestic  interest.  She  treated  Missy  as  the  cotempo- 
rary  of  herself  and  this  mamma  ;  she  spoke  in  extenu 
ation  of  the  "  young  people's"  shortcomings  at  the 
other  end  of  the  table  ;  she  begged  these  two  mature 
ladies  not  to  tell  anybody  in  Yellowcoats  what  a  noisy 
set  they  were.  Dear  Mr.  Andrews,  she  said,  enjoyed  it 
so  much.  It  was  such  a  boon  to  him  to  have  a  cheerful 
home.  lie  was  like  another  man  ;  only  that  morning 
he  had  told  her  he  had  not  realized  what  a  miser 
able  life  he  had  been  leading  till  they  came.  And  the 
children,  poor  neglected  darlings,  she  could  not  bear  to 
think  of  what  they  had  had  to  endmre  for  the  past 
few  months. 


328  THE    HONEYED     COUSINS. 

"I  have  dismissed  their  nurse,"  here  she  turned 
to  the  mamma.  "I  have  found  her  a  most  untrnsty 
person.  She  goes  to-morrow.  I  have  been  so  fortu 
nate  in  securing  a  servant  I  have  had  at  different  times 
for  several  years.  She  is  a  capable,  uncompromising 
creature,  and  admirable  in  the  government  of  children. 
But  here  I  am  running  on  about  the  children  ;  I  beg 
you  will  excuse  me,  I  know  it  isn't  table-talk.  Dear 
Miss  Rothermel,  tell  me  about  your  aunt's  rheuma 
tism." 

The  blow  about  Eliza's  going  away  had  been  almost 
too  much  for  Missy's  fortitude.  Mrs.  Eustace  looked 
at  her  critically,  while  she  waited  for  the  report  of  Miss 
Varian's  rheumatism. 

"  I  am  afraid  that  isn't  table-talk  either,"  she  man 
aged  to  say  ;  but  at  the  moment  the  darlings  in  ques 
tion  came  into  the  room,  and  all  eyes  were  turned  to 
them,  ^"lora  opened  her  arms  for  Jay  to  spring  into, 
which  he  did  with  considerable  roughness.  Gabrielle 
sidled  up  to  Mrs.  Eustace,  who  embraced  her  with  a 
warmth  most  beautiful  to  see,  awl  made  a  place  for  her 
beside  her,  for  dessert  was  on  the  table.  The  children 
had  left  off  their  mourning,  and  Gabrielle  was  braw 
with  sashes  and  trinkets.  As  soon  as  Jay  caught  sight  of 
Missy,  he  began  to  fret  ;  not  to  go  to  her,  but  she  evi 
dently  made  him  unhappy,  and  he  kept  looking  at  her 
furtively,  and  dashing  about  the  glasses  and  making 
plunges  for  things  out  of  his  reach,  and  acting  as  the 
worst  kind  of  a  story-book  boy  acts,  who  is  held  up  as 
a  warning.  Flora  kept  her  temper  admirably,  and 
bore  his  kicks  and  pushes  with  a  beaming  sweetness. 
He  also  tore  her  lace,  which,  though  cheap,  was  her 
own,  and  possibly  her  all. 


THE    HONEYED     COUSINS.  329 

'*'  He  always  acts  so  badly  when  Miss  Rothermel  is 
near,"  she  said,  sotto  voce,  to  her  neighbors.  "  I 
don't  know  what  it  is.  I  suppose  sensitively  organized 
children  feel  the  influence  of  temperament,  don't  you 
suppose  they  do  ?  And  really,  don't  laugh,  but  that's 
just  the  way  Miss  Rothermel  always  makes  me  feel — 
restless  and  fretful,  and  as  if  I'd  like  to  break  things, 
and  maybe  kick  somebody." 

This  made  them  all  laugh,  even  Mr.  Andrews,  who 
turned  such  an  admiring,  smiling  gaze  upon  the  sun 
burned  Flora,  as  to  fill  her  with  genuine  courage. 

"  Dear  Jay,"  she  said,  caressing  him,  "  they're 
laughing  at  me." 

"  They  ain't,"  said  Jay,  loud  enough  for  all  the 
table  to  hear,  "  they're  laughing  at  Missy,  and  you 
made  'em." 

"  O,  fie,"  cried  Mrs.  Eustace,  half  frightened  and 
half  pleased.  "  Your  Flo  never  did  anything  so 
naughty.  Little  boys  sometimes  misunderstand." 

Missy  felt  as  if  she  wanted  to  cry  ;  it  was  such  an 
enemy's  country  she  was  in.  She  was  generally  quite 
ready  to  defend  herself,  but  this  time  she  had  not  a 
word  to  say  ;  her  eyes  fell,  and  her  sensitive  face 
showed  her  pain.  Every  bod}'  tried  not  to  look  at  her, 
but  did  look  at  her,  of  course,  and  then  they  tried  to 
talk  of  other  things  so  diligently  as  to  be  apparent. 
The  dinner  was  wretched  after  this  ;  a  sort  of  damp 
crept  over  every  one,  even  in  the  youth's  department, 
as  Flora  called  their  end  of  the  table.  Mr.  Andrews 
never  said  a  word,  good  or  bad,  to  any  one,  and  that 
is  not  a  convivial  example  for  a  host  to  set.  The 
dinner  had  not  been  a  very  good  one,  although  pre 
tentious,  and  Mrs.  Eustace  had  secret  stings  of  appre- 


330  THE    HONEYED     COUSINS. 

hension  from  his  silence.  She  did  not  know  whether 
it  arose  from  annoyance  about  the  disrespect  to  Missy, 
or  from  disapprobation  of  the  ducks,  which  were  dried 
up  and  skinny,  and  one  could  fancy  had  a  taste  of 
smoke.  The  dessert  was  tame,  and  the  coffee  tepid. 
Contrasted  with  the  perfection  of  the  menage  next 
door,  it  was  a  very  shabby  dinner,  and  Mrs.  Eustace 
felt  really  vicious  when  she  watched  Miss  Rothermel, 
scarcely  attempting  to  taste  the  successive  failures  set 
before  her.  But  if  the  truth  were  known,  it  was  not 
contempt  for  the  failures,  but  real  inability  to  eat. 
She  had  been  galled  and  wounded  beyond  her  power 
to  show  fight  ;  she  only  asked  to  get  out  of  it  all,  and 
to  be  let  alone.  Even  Mrs.  Eustace  saw  she  had  per 
haps  gone  too  far,  as  she  heard  the  quiver  in  Missy's 
voice,  when  called  upon  to  answer  some  question  at  a 
time  that  everyone  was  listening.  Mr.  Andrews  might 
think  she  had  as  much  transcended  her  part  in  insult 
ing  his  guest,  as  she  had  fallen  below  it  in  not  prepar 
ing  him  a  good  dinner  ;  she  telegraphed  to  Flora  to 
discontinue.  Flora,  in  alarm,  discontinued,  but  the 
ship  did  not  right  itself.  The  mamma  and  the  papa 
could  not  recover  themselves,  the  doctors  of  medicine 
and  theology  were  helpless  in  the  emergency,  the 
young  people  were  in  confusion,  Mr.  Andrews  was 
struck  speechless  ;  it  was  a  total  wreck. 

The  ladies  got  into  the  parlor  somehow — the  gen 
tleman  got  through  their  smoking  somehow.  When 
they  met  there  afterward,  it  was  to  find  a  very  silent 
party  ;  the  young  ladies  were  yawning  and  declaring 
themselves  worn  out  with  the  sailing  party  of  the 
morning.  Missy  was  sitting  in  a  chair  by  the  window, 
her  face  away  from  the  rest  of  the  party.  Jay  was 


THE    HONEYED     COUSINS.  831 

standing  in  a  chair  beside  her,  palling  at  the  drapery 
of  the  window,  and  talking  in  a  very  big-hoy  tone, 
but  in  reality  very  much  comforted  by  being  with  her. 
She  had  one  hand  stretched  up  to  take  hold  of  his  skirt, 
for  he  was  rather  in  danger  of  tumbling,  notwithstand 
ing  his  grand  talk.  Missy  understood  him,  and  was 
satisfied  of  his  affection.  Mr.  Andrews  walked  straight 
up  to  her,  not  noticing  anybody  else  as  he  came  into 
the  room.  She  felt  herself  color  fiercely  before  she 
turned  her  face  around,  for  she  knew  that  he  was 
coming. 

"  Have  you  and  Jay  made  friends  ?"  he  said,  un 
fortunately. 

"  I  did  not  know  we  had  quarreled,"  she  returned. 
She  would  have  resented  anything  he  said,  not  having 
forgotten  his  approving  glance  at  Flora,  when  she 
made  them  all  laugh  at  her. 

"  I  am  awfully  sorry,"  began  Mr.  Andrews,  in  a  low 
tone,  looking  at  the  carpet.  But  Missy  didn't  permit 
him  to  finish  the  sentence. 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Andrews,  that  is  such  an  old  story.  You 
are  always  being  awfully  sorry,  but  it  never  prevents 
things  happening.  I  think  the  only  way  is  not  to  give 
them  a  chance  to  happen.  I  want  to  go  home  now,  if 
you  will  see  if  my  maid  is  come." 

Mr.  Andrews  went  to  see  if  the  maid  had  come. 
She  had,  and  was  having  a  beautiful  time  in  the 
kitchen  with  the  servants.  What  Mr.  Andrews  was 
thinking  of  when  he  came  back  into  the  parlor  it  was 
difficult  to  guess  from  his  face.  He  might  have  been 
angry,  he  might  have  been  bored,  he  might  have  been 
wounded.  lie  certainly  wasn't  in  a  good  humor.  lie 
merely  said  to  Miss  Rothermel  that  her  servant  was  in 


332  MRS.     HAZARD     SMATTER. 

the  hall,  and  then  stood  aside  as  she  moved  away,  only 
bowing  as  she  said  good-night,  and,  with  a  kiss  to  Jay, 
and  as  few  words  as  possible  to  the  others,  passed  out 
of  the  room. 

"  The  only  way  is  not  to  give  such  things  a  chance 
to  happen,"  she  said  to  herself,  all  in  a  quiver,  as  she 
went  out  into  the  night,  and  the  door  shut  behind  her. 
She  heard  a  not  very  suppressed  noise  of  laughter  in  the 
parlor,  as  she  passed  the  windows  going  off  the  piazza. 
She  had  crossed  that  threshold  for  the  last,  last  time, 
she  said  to  herself.  And  this  time  she  kept  her  reso 
lution. 


CHAPTER    XXI. 
MRS.    HAZARD  SMATTER. 

HE  two  houses  were  now  at  open  war,  at 
least  the  female  part  of  them.  Jay  was  for 
bidden,  without  any  secresy,  to  go  into  his 
neighbor's  grounds,  Gabriel le  was  in  an 
ecstasy  of  gossip  all  the  while,  and  brought  Flora  news, 
true  and  false,  continually.  She  spied  through  the 
hedge,  and  found  the  new  servants  and  her  high- 
minded  cousins  ready  to  receive  a  report  of  all  she  dis 
covered,  i.  e.,  if  it  were  reported  in  a  whisper.  Mr. 
Andrews  seemed  to  have  given  up  all  attempts  to  rec 
oncile  the  contending  parties.  He  never  went  to  the 
Varians'  now,  nor  made  any  effort  to  exchange  neigh 
borly  courtesies. 


MRS.     HAZARD     SHATTER  333 

Missy  was  very  bitter  and  unhappy,  about  these 
days.  She  knew  what  all  Yellowcoats  was  saying 
about  Mr.  Andrews  and  his  cousin,  for  they  said  that 
to  her  openly.  And  she  surmised  what  they  did  not 
say  openly  to  her,  to  wit  :  that  the  cause  of  her  own 
unhappy  looks  was  her  disappointment  in  the  matter. 
How  can  one  help  unhappy  looks  ?  One  can  help  un 
happy  words  ;  one  can  do  all  sorts  of  things  that  are 
meant  to  mean  happy  acts,  but  how  to  keep  the  cloud 
off  one's  face  at  all  hours  and  moments,  is  an  art  yet 
in  the  bowels  of  time.  Missy  knew  she  looked  un 
happy,  and  she  knew  she  could  not  dissemble  it.  She 
knew,  by  this  time,  that  she  was  jealous,  and  jealous 
not  only  in  the  matter  of  Jay.  She  knew  that,  deride 
him  as  she  might,  the  silent  widower  was  an  object  of 
interest  to  her.  She  did  not  yet  acknowledge  to  her 
self  that  she  cared  for  him,  but  she  did  acknowledge 
that  it  was  important  to  her  that  he  cared  for  her,  that 
he  gave  her  a  certain  sort  of  admiration.  Alas  !  she 
felt  a  doubt  now  whether  he  gave  her  even  a  small  de 
gree  of  respect.  For  who  can  respect  a  jealous 
woman  ?  And  she  had  been  jealous,  even  before  she 
saw  her  rival,  or  knew  more  of  her  than  that  she  might 
be  her  rival. 

There  is  nothing  kills  self-respect  like  jealousy. 
Missy  hated  and  despised  herself  from  the  moment 
that  she  knew  she  was  jealous.  She  felt  herself  no 
longer  mistress  of  her  words  and  actions.  Begin  the 
morning  with  the  best  resolutions  in  the  world,  before 
noon  she  would  have  said  or  done  something  that  upset 
them  all.  She  had  such  evil  thoughts  of  others,  such 
an  eating,  burning  discontent  with  herself.  She  re 
membered  her  childish  days,  when  her  jealousy  of  her 


334  MRS.     HAZARD     SMATTER. 

stepfather  made  her  a  little  fiend.  "I  was  brought 
up  on  it,  I  learned  it  with  my  alphabet, — it  is  not  my 
fault,  it  is  my  fate,"  she  said  to  herself  with  bitterness. 

It  was  very  fortunate  perhaps,  as  she  could  dissem 
ble  so  ill,  that  the  two  houses  saw  so  little  of  each  other. 
Flora  was  not  of  a  jealous  nature,  and  it  seemed  as  if 
she  had  very  little  to  be  jealous  about.  She  was  hav 
ing  it  all  her  own  way  apparently,  and  she  longed  to 
flaunt  her  triumphs  in  her  rival's  face.  That  was  the 
one  thing  that  she  felt  she  was  not  succeeding  in.  She 
could  not  be  sure  Missy  knew  il,  every  time  she  went 
out  to  drive  with  Mr.  Andrews,  and  that  took  away 
half  the  pleasure.  Miss  Rothermel  kept  herself  so 
much  out  of  read)  of  criticism  it  was  unsatisfactory. 
Pure  speculation  grew  tiresome.  It  was  the  longing  of 
Flora's  heart  to  have  another  meeting,  and  to  display 
Mr.  Andrews,  but  Missy  baulked  her.  At  church  it 
could  have  been  accomplished,  but  most  unhappily  Mr. 
Andrews  wouldn't  go  to  church  (at  least  with  them). 
His  amiable  and  accomplished  cousins  could  make  him 
do  a  good  deal,  but  they  couldn't  make  him  do  that. 
Neither  could  they  make  him  talk  about  his  neighbors 
nor  laugh  at  any  of  their  sarcasms. 

About  this  time,  Miss  Varian  had  a  friend  to  stay 
with  her.  Mrs.  Varian  was  always  rather  shy  of  her  sis 
ter's  friends  ;  they  were  apt  to  be  strange  cattle.  This 
one,  however,  Mrs.  Varian  remembered  in  her  youth, 
and  had  no  doubt  would  be  of  an  unobjectionable  kind. 
Mrs.  Hazard  Smatter  had  been  an  inoffensive  New 
York  girl,  not  considered  to  carry  very  heavy  guns, 
but  good-looking  and  good-natured.  That  was  the  last 
Miss  Varian  knew  of  her.  In  the  revolution  of  years 
she  turned 'up  again,  now  a  middle-aged  woman,  with 


MRS.     HAZARD     SHATTER.  385 

feeble  gray  hair,  and  misgivings  about  revealed  relig 
ion.  She  had  married  a  Bostonian,  and  that  had  been 
too  much  for  her.  She  despised  her  former  condition  so 
much  as  not  to  desire  to  allude  to  it.  She  was  filled  with 
lofty  aspirations  and  cultivated  herself.  There  was 
nothing  that  she  did  not  look  into,  though  it  was 
doubtful  whether  she  saw  very  much  when  she  did 
look.  Having  begun  rather  late,  she  had  to  hurry  a 
good  deal  to  know  all  that  was  to  be  known  about 
History,  Science,  Art,  Theology,  and  Literature  ;  and 
as  these  rivers  of  human  thought  are  continually  flow 
ing  on,  and  occasionally  altering  their  channels,  it  was 
perhaps  excusable  that  while  she  kept  up,  she  some 
times  lost  her  breath,  and  was  a  little  unintelligble. 
If  it  had  only  been  one  river,  but  there  was  such  a  lot 
of  them,  and  of  course  a  person  of  culture  can't  ignore 
even  a  little  boiling  spring  that  has  just  burst  out. 
There's  no  knowing  what  it  may  develop  into  ;  one 
must  Avatch  its  course,  and  not  let  it  get  ahead  of  one. 
Taking  notes  on  the  universe  is  hard  work,  and  Mrs. 
Hazard  Smatter  felt  that  her  gray  hair  was  so  to  be 
accounted  for.  It  was  her  one  feminine  weakness,  the 
one  remnant  of  her  pre-cultured  state,  that  led  her  to 
call  it  premature. 

What  with  dress  reform,  and  want  of  taste,  she 
was  not  a  woman  to  reproach  with  personal  vanity. 
She  was  rather  a  little  person.  She  had  pale  blue  eyes 
somewhat  prominent  ;  a  high  forehead,  which  re 
treated,  and  a  small  chin,  which  did,  too.  She  attri 
buted  these  defects  to  her  place  of  nativity,  and  drew 
many  inferences  about  the  habits  and  mental  peculiar 
ities  of  her  ancestors,  which  wouldn't  have  pleased 
them  if  they'd  known  about  it.  She  had  a  very  candid 


336  MRS.     HAZARD    SHATTER. 

mind,  and  of  course  no  family  pride,  and  it  was  quite 
surprising  to  bear  her  talk  on  this  subject. 

Mrs.  Varian  was  quite  frightened  the  first  evening. 
Miss  Harriet  was  delighted.  She  always  had  liked 
the  dangerous  edge  of  things,  and  had  felt  herself 
defrauded  in  being  forced  to  live  among  such  conven 
tional  people  as  her  sister's  friends.  Mrs.  Smatter  was 
so  unexpectedly  changed  from  the  commonplace  com 
rade  of  her  youth,  that  she  could  not  be  thankful  enough 
that  she  had  sent  for  her.  The  first  evening  they  only 
got  through  Inherited  Traits,  the  History  of  Modern 
Thought,  the  Subjection  of  Women,  and  a  few  other 
light  and  airy  themes,  which  were  treated,  of  course, 
exhaustively.  To  Miss  Varian,  it  was  a  foretaste  of 
rich  treats  in  store. 

"  Mamma,"  cried  Missy,  when  she  was  alone  with 
Mrs.  Varian,  "  what  kind  of  creature  have  we  got  hold 
of  ?'» 

"  I  can't  classify  her,"  said  her  mother.  "  But  I 
am  afraid  it  will  be  very  hard  to  use  hospitality  with 
out  grudging  towards  a  woman  who  talks  so  about 
her  grandfather,  and  who  knows  so  much  more  than 
we  do  abont  the  sacerdotal  systems  of  the  prehistoric 
races." 

"I'd  much  rather  she'd  talk  of  things  I  don't  un 
derstand,  than  of  things  I  do.  How  long  do  you  sup 
pose  she  is  going  to  stay?" 

"  I  am  afraid  Harriet  will  never  be  willing  to  let 
her  go,  she  seems  so  charmed  with  her." 

"  Don't  you  think  she  might  be  persuaded  to  take 
Aunt  Harriet  home  to  Boston  with  her,  to  live?  Fancy, 
a  few  minds  to  tea  two  or  three  times  a  week,  and  on 
the  alternate  nights,  lectures,  and  clubs,  and  classes. 


MRS.     HAZARD     SHATTER.  337 

It  is  just  what  Aunt  Harriet  needs,  indeed  it  is.  See  if 
you  can't  lead  up  to  it,  mamma." 

The  next  morning,  when  Missy  passed  the  guest's 
room,  the  door  of  which  stood  open,  she  was  surprised 
to  see  a  complete  revolution  in  the  furniture.  The 
rugs  had  all  been  taken  away,  the  curtains,  unhooked 
and  folded  up,  were  lying  on  a  chair,  the  sofa  and  two 
upholstered  chairs  were  rolled  away  into  the  ad 
joining  chamber.  The  bed,  pushed  out  into  the  room, 
stood  in  a  most  awkward  attitude  at  right  angles  with 
nothing.  On  the  pillow  was  pinned  a  pocket  compass, 
which  indicated  due  north.  Goneril,  who  was  putting 
the  room  in  order,  with  set  teeth,  explained  that  it  was 
by  the  lady's  orders,  who  had  instructed  her  that  her 
bed  must  always  stand  at  exactly  that  angle,  on  ac 
count  of  the  electric  currents. 

"  I  take  it,"  said  the  woman,  "  she  doesn't  like  to 
ride  backwards." 

The  rugs  were  liable  to  contain  disease  germs,  as 
well  as  the  upholstered  furniture,  and  she  had  inti 
mated  that  she  would  like  the  walls  rubbed  down  with 
carbolic  once  or  twice  a  week. 

"  I  told  her,"  snapped  Goneril,  "  that  we  weren't  a 
hospital,  no  more  were  we  a  hotel." 

It  was  well  that  the  duster  was  not  made  of  any 
thing  sterner  than  feathers,  or  the  delicate  ornaments 
of  the  dressing-table  would  have  had  a  hard  time  of  it, 
for  she  brushed  with  increased  vehemence  as  she  got 
worked  up  in  talking.  "She  told  me  she  would  have 
preferred  straw  for  her  bed,  but  it  was  no  matter  now, 
as  it  was  all  made  up.  Straw  was  the  only  thing  for 
beds,  she  said,  and  to  be  changed  once  a  week.  I'm 
sorry  I  didn't  take  her  at  her  word.  I  know  she 
15 


338  MRS.     HAZARD    SHATTER. 

enjoys  the  springs  and  the  new  mattress,  and  if  it 
hadn't  been  for  the  trouble,  I'd  have  given  her  her  fill 
of  straw,  and  lumpy  straw  at  that.  I  told  her  I  was 
used  to  clean  and  decent  Christian  folks,  who  didn't 
need  to  have  their  beds  burned  once  a  week,  and  who 
didn't  carry  diseases  about  with  them,  and  who  could 
get  along  without  carbolic.  And  as  to  carrying  up 
water  enough  to  flush  a  sewer  every  night  and  morn 
ing,  I  wouldn't  do  it  for  her  nor  any  other  woman,  clean 
or  dirty.  And  as  to  being  called  up  at  twelve  o'clock 
at  night  to  look  at  the  thermometer  and  to  close  the 
window  an  inch  and  a  quarter,  and  to  spread  a  blanket 
over  her  feet  to  keep  the  temperature  of  her  body 
from  going  a  little  bit  too  low — and  then  being  called 
up  at  five  to  look  again,  and  to  take  the  blanket  off, 
and  to  see  that  it  didn't  get  a  little  too  high, — it's  just 
a  trifle  more  than  I  can  bear.  I  hope  the  new  woman 
will  like  it,  when  she  comes.  Tm  going  next  week, 
Wednesday,  and  that's  the  end  of  it." 

"  I  am  ashamed  of  you,  Goneril  ;  you're  not  going 
to  do  anything  of  the  sort.  Don't  upset  Miss  Varian 
by  talking  so  to  her.  Let  her  have  a  little  peace,  if 
she  likes  Mrs.  Srnatter." 

"  I'm  the  one  to  talk  about  being  upset.  It's  bad 
enough  to  wait  on  au  old  vixen  like  Miss  Varian,  but 
when  it  comes  to  waiting  on  all  her  company,  and 
when  her  company  are  fools  and  idiots,  I  say  it's  time 
to  go.  I've  put  up  with  a  good  deal  in  this  house.  I've 
come  down  in  the  world,  but  that's  no  reason  I  should 
put  up  with  everything.  It's  one  thing  to  say  you'll 
be  obliging  and  sleep  in  a  room  that's  handy,  so  you 
could  be  called  if  anything  extraordinary  happened, 
where  the  person  you're  looking  after  is  afflicted  of 


MRS.     HAZARD     SHATTER.  339 

Providence.     But  it's  another  thing  to   be    broke    of 
your  rest  two   nights    running   to    keep   count   of  the 
thermometer    over    a    well    woman    who    hasn't  sense 
enough  to  know  when  she's   hot   and  when   she's   cold. 
It's  bad  enough  to  be  Help  anyhow,  but  it  ain't  worth 
while  to  be  walked  over.     I    can  stand  folks  that's  got 
some  sense,    even   it'  they've  got   some   temper.     But 
people  like  this,  jumbling   up   almanacs   and   doctors' 
books,  and  free  thinkin'  tracts  ;  them  I  can't  stand,  and 
what's  more,  I  won't  stand,  and  there's    an  end  of   it." 
There  wouldn't  have  been  an  end  of    it,  though,  if 
Miss  Rothermel  had   not   got  np  and    walked     away. 
There  is  a  limit  beyond  which  even  American  Farmers' 
Daughters  must  not  be   permitted    to  go,  and  Goneril 
had  certainly  reached  that  limit,  and  as  she  would  have 
talked  on  for  an  hour  in  steadily  increasing  vehemence, 
there   was  nothing   but  for  Missy  to  go   away,    with 
silent  disapprobation,  and  wish  the  visitor  well   out  of 
the  house.     The    visitor  she   found    at  the   breakfast- 
table,  blandly  stirring  her   weak   tea,  and    waiting  for 
her  oatmeal  to  have  an  additional  fifteen  minutes  on  the 
fire.     The    cook    had     been    called    in    and    acknowl 
edged  that   the   oatmeal   had   only  had  two  hours  of 
cooking.     Mrs.  Smaller  had  explained,  on   exacl  scien 
tific  principles,  the    necessity  of  boiling    oatmeal  two 
hours  and  thirty-five  minutes,  and  the  wheels  of  break 
fast  stood  still  while  this  was  being  accomplished.    The 
cook  was  in  a  rage,  for  oatmeal  was  one  of  her  strong 
points,  and  she  always  boiled  it  two  hours.     Miss  Va- 
rian    was    growing    distrustful    of    everything.     Mrs. 
Smaller  had  raised  her  suspicions  aboul   the  adultera 
tion  of  all  the  food  on  the  table.     Even  the  water,  she 
found,  wasn't  filtered  with  the  proper  filter,  and  there 


340  MRS.     HAZARD     SHATTER. 

was  salt  enough  in  the  potatoes  to  destroy  the  tis 
sues  of  a  whole  household.  She  desired  the  waitress 
to  have  a  pitcher  of  water  boiled  for  her,  and  then 
iced  ;  and  she  would  be  glad  if  she  would  ask  the  gro 
cer  where  he  got  his  salt. 

By  dinner  time  Miss  Variants  usual  good  appetite 
was  destroyed  ;  she  was  so  engaged  in  speculating 
about  the  assimilation  of  her  food,  that  she  had  a  bad 
indigestion.  When  evening  carne,  she  was  so  fretful 
she  was  almost  inclined  to  quarrel  with  her  new-found 
friend.  As  they  sat  around  the  lamp,  Mrs.  Smaller  be 
came  a  little  restless  because  the  conversation  showed 
a  tendency  to  degenerate  into  domestic  or  common 
place  channels  ;  she  strove  to  buoy  it  up  with  sestbelic, 
speculative,  scientific  bladders,  as  the  case  might  be. 
Missy  pricked  one  or  two  of  these,  by  asking  some 
question  which  wasn't  in  Mrs.  Smatter's  catechism  ; 
but,  nothing  daunted,  she  would  inflate  another,  and  go 
sailing  on  to  the  admiration  of  hfM'  hearers. 

A  letter  had  come  from  St.  John,  in  which  he  gave 
some  hope  that  he  might  return  in  the  autumn, 
though  he  enlered  into  no  explanation  of  the  reason 
for  such  a  change  of  plan.  Missy  was  all  curiosity,  and 
her  mother  was  all  solicitude,  but  they  naturally  did 
not  talk  much  to  each  other  about  it,  and  of  course  did 
not  wish  it  alluded  to  in  Mrs.  Smatter's  presence. 
Miss  Varian,  however,  asked  questions,  and  brought 
the  subject  forward  with  persistence.  It  seemed  to 
Miss  Rothermel  profanation  to  have  her  brother's  name 
spoken  by  this  woman.  What  was  her  dismay  to  hear 
Mrs.  Smatter  say,  settling  herself  into  a  speculative 
attitude  : 

"  I  hear,  Mrs.   Varian,  that  your  son   is  in   one  of 


MRS.     HAZARD     SMATTER.  341 

those  organizations  they  call  brotherhoods.  I  should 
like  very  much,  if  you  don't  mind,  if  you  would  tell 
me  something  about  his  youth,  and  how  you  brought 
him  up,  and  what  traces  you  saw  of  this  tendency, 
and  how  you  account  for  it." 

''  I  don't  understand,"  faltered  Mrs.  Varian.  "Do 
you  mean — his  education — or — or — " 

"  I  mean,"  said  Mrs.  Smatter,  "  was  he  physically 
strong,  and  properly  developed,  and  did  you  attend  to 
his  diet  ?  I  should  have  thought  oatmeal  and  fish  arid 
phosphates  might  have  counteracted  this  tendency  ; 
that  is,  of  course,  if  you  could  have  anticipated  it." 

"  He  lias  always  been  in  very  fine  health,"  said  the 
mother. 

'•  Indeed  !  That  seems  inexplicable.  I  have  always 
felt  these  things  could  be  accounted  for,  if  one  were 
inclined  to  look  into  it.  It  must  be  the  result  of  some 
thing  abnormal,  you  know.  If  we  could  look  into  the 
matter,  I  am  sure  we  should  find  the  monastic  idea 
had  a  physical  basis." 

"  Indeed  !"  said  Miss  Varian,  tartly.  "  Well,  I 
shouldn't  have  thought  it  had  anything  of  the  kind. 
No  more  than  that  the  culinary  idea  had  a  spiritual 
basis." 

"  I  have  always  thought,"  remarked  Mrs.  Smatter, 
ignoring  the  interruption,  "that  science  would  do  well 
to  study  individual  cases  of  this  kind,  to  ascertain  the 
cause  of  the  mental  bias.  It  would  be  useful  to  know 
the  reason  of  the  imperfect  development  of  the  brain, 
for  instance,  of  this  young  man,  who  represents  a  class 
becoming,  I  am  told,  quite  numerous.  Do  you  remem 
ber,  dear  Mrs.  Varian,  any  accident  iu  childhood — 
any  fall  ?" 


342  MRS.     HAZARD    SHATTER. 

"  I  really  think  you've  got  beyond  your  depth," 
cried  Miss  Varian,  under  the  spur  of  indigestion  and 
family  feeling.  "  If  I  were  you  I  would  talk  about 
things  I  understood  a  little.  St.  John  Varian  isn't 
down  in  your  books,  my  dear.  You  can't  take  him  in 
any  more  than  you  can  the  planet  Jupiter,  and  you'd 
better  not  try." 

"  Indeed,"  said  Mrs.  Srnatter,  a  little  uneasy.  "  Is 
he  so  very  remarkable  an  entity  ?" 

"I  don't  know  anything  about  his  entity,  but  he 
lias  a  good  brain  of  his  own,  if  you  want  to  know 
that,  and  he  didn't  fall  down  stairs  when  he  was  a 
child,  any  more  than  St.  Charles  Borroraeo,  or  St. 
Francis  Xavier,  or  Lacordaire  did.  But  then,  per 
haps  you  think  they  did,  if  it  were  only  looked  into. 
Fancy  what  a  procession  of  them,  bumping  down  the 
stairs  of  time,  or  tumbling  out  of  trees  of  knowledge 
that  they'd  been  forbidden  to  climb  up." 

Missy  laughed,  a  little  hysterically,  and  that  irri 
tated  Miss  Varian,  whose  indigestion  was  really  very 
bad,  and  who  was  naturally  opposed  to  Missy,  and 
who  was  ashamed  to  find  herself  tackling  her  guest  in 
this  way  and  upholding  the  unpardonable  step  of  St. 
John  in  the  hearing  of  his  mother,  who  was  to  blame 
for  it  It  was  exasperating,  and  she  didn't  know  who 
to  hit,  or  rather,  who  not  to  hit,  she  was  so  out  of 
patience  with  everybody. 

"If  you'd  give  up  the  phosphates/'  she  said,  "and 
inquire  into  the  way  he  was  brought  up,  you  might 
get  more  satisfaction.  How  he  was  drilled  and  drilled 
and  made  to  read  saints'  lives,  and  told  legends  of  the 
martyrs  when  he  was  going  to  bed,  and  made  to  be 
lieve  that  all  that  was  nice  and  jolly  in  life  was  to 


MRS.     HAZARD     SHATTER.  343 

he  given  up  almost  before  you  got  it,  and  that  all  the 
sins  in  the  decalogue  were  to  be  confessed,  almost 
before  you'd  committed  lliem  ;  if  you'd  look  into  this, 
you  might  get  a  iiitle  light  upon  your  subject." 

"  Ah  !"  said  Mrs.  Smaller,  interested,  "  perhaps 
that  might  account — " 

"Aunt  Harriet,"  cried  Missy,  getting  up,  and  let 
ting  her  work  fall  on  the  floor — spools,  thimble  and 
scissors  dispersing  themselves  in  corners — "Aunt  Har 
riet,  there  is  a  limit — " 

"  A  limit  to  what?  Superstition  and  priest-craft — 
maudlin  sentiment  and  enervating  influence — 

"Mamma,  won't  you  go  up  stairs  with  me  ?"  cried 
Missy,  and  there  was  no  time  given  Mrs.  Smaller  for 
further  speculation,  or  Miss  Varian  for  further  aggres 
sion.  After  the  door  closed  behind  them,  Miss 
Varian's  wrath  rose  against  her  inquisitive  friend,  and 
family  feeling  carried  the  day. 

"  You'd  better  drop  the  subject  of  St.  John,  per 
manently,"  she  said  with  decision. 

And  Mrs.  Smaller  accommodatingly  offered  to  read 
her  a  treatise  on  the  Artislic  Dualism  of  the  Renais 
sance,  with  which  the  evening  closed. 


344  A     GARDEN    PARTY. 

CHAPTER  XXII. 
A   GARDEN   PARTY. 


HE  summer  had  come  to  its  end,  to  its  very 
last  day.  Mrs.  Hazard  Srnatter  still 
lingered  at  Yellovvcoats,  notwithstanding 
the  defective  sanitary  arrangements  ;ind 
the  absence  of  stimulating  mental  contact.  Miss 
Varian  had  felt  considerable  mortification  thai  her 
friend  should  know  she  lived  in  such  an  atmosphere, 
and  was  always  speaking  of  it  apologetically  and  as 
temporarily  stagnant.  She  had  however  given  Mrs. 
Varian  no  rest  till  she  had  consented  to  see  that  it  was 
her  duty  to  provide  some  social  entertainment  for  Mis. 
Smatter,  something,  of  course,  inadequate  to  the  mental 
needs  of  that  lady,  but  something  thai,  would  show  her 
that  she  was  still  in  the  midst  of  civilized  life.  A 
lady  who  used  familiarly  the  names  that  Mrs.  Smat'er 
did,  could  no',  of  course  be  dazzled  by  the  doctor  or 
the  rector.  But  she  could  be  made  to  see  thai  they 
had  a  good  many  young  women  who  dressed  well  and 
several  men  who  were  good  style.  And  there  were  1  wo 
painters,  and  a  stray  architect  or  so,  and  a  composer, 
staying  in  the  place.  The  ,e  were  not  much,  to  make 
a  show  against  the  minds  to  which  Mrs.  Smatter  was 
a  -custorned,  but  they  were  better  than  nothing. 
Therefore,  Mrs.  Varian  must  have  at  least,  two  head- 
ac  ie.-i,  and  Missy  at  least  three  days'  work  writing 
h  r  invitations  and  getting  up  her  gaulen  party. 

Now,  a   garden   party   is  a  uharmrng   thing   when 


A     GARDEN    PARTY.  345 

everything  is  favorable.      All  the  neighborhood  was 

•  C*  " 

delighted  at  the  prospect,  for  invitations  to  garden 
parties  were  not  rife  in  Yellowcoats,  and  the  Varians' 
place  was  unusually  nice  for  such  a  thing. 

The  weather  had  been  close  and  warm  for  several 
days,  and  the  deep  shade  of  the  trees  upon  the  lawn 
and  the  cooling  ripple  of  the  water  beyond  had  entered 
into  the  picture  everyone  had  drawn  of  the  projected 
garden  party.  But  on  the  morning  of  that  day,  a  cold 
east  wind  set  in,  and  dashes  of  rain  fell  about  noon — 
then  the  sky  grew  leaden  from  having  been  gusty  and 
mottled,  and  though  no  more  rain  fell,  the  wind  was  as 
raw  as  November,  and  the  chill  was  something  that 
ate  to  one's  very  marrow.  A  garden  party  !  the  very 
idea  became  grotesque.  A  warming-pan  party,  a 
chimney-corner  party,  a  range,  a  furnace-party,  would 
all  have  been  more  to  the  purpose. 

But  people  came,  and  shivered  and  looked  blue. 
They  huddled  together  in  the  house,  where  fires  were 
lighted,  and  gazed  out  of  windows  at  the  cold  water 
and  the  dreary  lawn.  A  few  daring  spirits  braved  the 
blast,  and  went  out  to  play  lawn-tennis  and  a  little 
feeble  archery.  But  their  courage  did  not  keep  them 
long  at  it  in  gaze  de  Chambery  and  India  mull.  One 
by  one  they  dropped  away  and  came  shaking  back  into 
the  house. 

Mrs.  Smatter  was  quite  above  being  affected  by  the 
weather.  She  expected  to  hold  high  carnival  with  the 
painters  and  the  architect,  who  were  of  course  presented 
to  her  at  once.  The  composer,  a  grim,  dark  man, 
looking  like  a  Mexican  cut-throat,  held  off.  He  pre 
ferred  young  women,  and  did  not  care  to  talk  about 
Wagner  out  of  office  hours.  The  architect  was  a  mild 
15* 


346  A     GARDEN    PARTY. 

young  person,  not  at  all  used  to  society,  and  lie  very 
soon  broke  down.  Mrs.  Srnatter  was  a  little  agitated 
by  this,  and  did  not  discriminate  between  her  painters; 
she  talked  about  the  surface  muscles  to  the  landscape 
man,  and  about  cloud  effects  to  the  figure  painter. 
This  confused  everybody,  and  they  severally  bowed 
themselves  away  as  soon  as  they  could,  and  Mrs.  Smat- 
terever  after  spoke  with  great  contempt  of  the  culture 
of  Yellowcoats.  She  was  obliged  to  content  herself 
with  the  doctor  and  the  rector,  who  did  not  dare  to  go 
away  while  she  was  asking  them  questions  and  giving 
them  information,  which  she  never  ceased  doing  till 
the  entertainment  ended. 

As  to  Missy,  the  whole  thing  was  such  a  vexation 
and  disappointment  she  scarcely  knew  how  to  bear  it. 
The  bright  fires  and  the  flowers,  and  the  well-ordered 
entertainment  redeemed  it  somewhat,  but  it  remained 
a  burlesque  upon  a  garden  party,  and  would  never  be 
what  it  was  meant  to  be.  The  people  from  next  door 
had  come — Miss  Flora  in  a  new  gown,  and  the  mother 
all  beaming  in  a  bonnet  crowned  with  buttercups  ;  Mr. 
Andrews  very  silent  and  a  trifle  awkward.  There 
were  too  many  people  to  make  it  necessary  to  say 
many  words  to  them  when  they  came  in,  and  they 
were  presently  scattered  among  the  crowd. 

An  hour  later,  Missy,  with  her  cheeks  flushed  from 
the  talking  and  the  warm  rooms,  went  out  of  the  sum 
mer  parlor  and  across  the  lawn  to  a  pair  of  young 
people  who  had  been  silly  enough  to  stay  there  till 
there  was  danger  of  their  being  made  ill  by  the  cold. 
She  had  promised  an  anxious  mamma  by  the  fire  to 
see  that  her  daughter  had  a  shawl  or  came  in,  and  had 
just  delivered  the  message  and  the  shawl  and  turned 


A     GARDEN    PARTY.  347 

away  from  the  obdurate  little  idiot,  who  would  not 
give  up  her  flirtation  even  to  escape  pneumonia,  when 
she  saw  that  Mr.  Andrews  had  followed  her. 

"  It  is  a  very  unlucky  day  for  ray  garden  party," 
she  said,  as  he  joined  her.  "  The  sky  and  the  water 
like  ink,  and  a  wind  that  actually  howls." 

"  I  wanted  to  speak  to  you  a  moment,"  he  said,  as 
if  he  had  not  noticed  what  she  was  saying.  "  Will  you 
take  cold  here  for  a  moment  ?" 

"  No,"  she  answered,  feeling  her  cheeks  burn. 

"  This  has  been  an  unlucky  summer  in  some  ways, 
Miss  Rothermel,  but  now  it's  over  ;  and  before  we 
part,  I  want  to  say  a  few  words  to  you." 

"  Certainly,"  said  Missy,  distantly.  "  I  hope  you're 
not  going  away  soon  ?" 

"  I've  taken  passage  for  the  6th,  that  is  a  week  from 
to-day,  and  I  don't  know  when  we  shall  return — very 
possibly  not  for  several  years." 

There  was  a  pause,  while  Missy  got  her  voice 
steady  and  staggered  up  from  under  the  blow. 

"I've  been  unlucky  this  summer,  as  I  said,  and 
seem  to  have  managed  to  give  you  offense  by  every 
thing  I  did." 

Now,  no  woman  likes  to  be  told  she's  not  sweet- 
tempered,  even  if  she  knows  she  is  a  spitfire,  arid  this 
nettled  Missy  sharply,  and  steadied  her  voice  consider 
ably. 

"  I  am  sorry,"  she  said,  "  that  you  think  me  so  un- 
amiable,  but  I  don't  exactly  know  why  you  should  think 
it  well  to  tell  me  of  it." 

"  I  haven't  told  you  that  you  were  unamiable  ;  I 
have  told  you  that  I  hadn't  been  able  to  do  the 


348  A     GARDEN    PARTY. 

thing  that  pleased   you,   though   Heaven   knows  I've 
tried  hard  enough." 

"  It's  a  pity  that  I'm  such  a  dragon.  Poor  little 
Jay,  even,  is  afraid  of  me  by  this  time,  isn't  he  ?" 

"I  don't  know  about  Jay.  I'm  rather  stupid  about 
things,  I'm  afraid.  Women  perplex  me  very  much." 

Missy  drew  the  scarf  that,  she  had  picked  up  in  the 
hall  as  she  came  out,  about  her  shoulders,  and  beat  her 
foot  upon  the  gravel  as  if  she  were  cold  and  a  trifle 
tired  of  Mr.  Andrews'  sources  of  perplexity. 

"  What  I  wanted  to  say,"  he  went  on,  "  is,  that  I 
thank  you  always  for  what  you've  been  to  the 
children." 

"  Ah,  please,"  she  cried,  with  a  gesture  of  impa 
tience. 

"  And  that  I  shall  always  regret  the  misstep  that  I 
took  in  bringing  my  cousins  here.  I  did  it  in  the  hope 
that  it  would  make  it  possible  for  you  to  come  famil 
iarly  to  my  house  and  remove  all  the  annoyances  from 
which  you  had  suffered.  I  made  a  mistake,  it  has  all 
gone  wrong.  As  I  said  before,  I  don't  understand  your 
sex,  and  it  is  best,  I  suppose,  that  I  should  give  up  try 
ing  to.  Only  there  are  some  things  that  I  should 
think  you  might  express  to  a  woman  as  you  would  to  a 
man.  I  desire  to  say  I  am  sorry  to  have  given  pain 
and  annoyance  to  you  all  the  time,  as  I  and  mine 
seem  to  have  been  the  means  of  doing.  I  have  great 

O  O 

cause  to  feel  grateful  to  you,  and  nothing  can  ever 
change  the  high  esteem  in  which  I  hold  you." 

"  Thank  you  very  much,"  said  Missy  ;  "  not  even 
the  opinion  of  the  ladies  of  your  household  ?" 

Mr.  Andrews  turned  his  head  away,  with  a  stolid 
look  towards  the  lead-colored  bay. 


A     GARDEN    PARTY.  349 

"  I  don't  suppose  anything  will  be  gained  by  dis 
cussing  them,"  lie  said. 

"  No,  Mr.  Andrews,  for  I  don't  like  them,  and  you 
know  when  women  don't  like  each  other  they  are  apt 
to  be  unreasonable." 

Mr.  Andrews  was  silent,  and  his  silence  roused  a 
fire  of  jealousy  in  his  companion's  mind.  Why  did  he 
not  say  to  her  that  he  despised  them,  that  he  saw 
through  them,  that  he  did  not  think  her  prejudice 
against  them  in  the  least  unreasonable? 

<£  We  shall  get  cold  if  we  stay  here  any  longer  I'm 
afraid,"  she  said,  moving  slowly  forward  up  the  path. 

Mr.  Andrews  ualked  beside  her  for  a  moment  with 
out  speaking,  then  he  said  very  deliberately  : 

"  You  have  given  me  much  pain,  at  various  times, 
Miss  Rothermel,  and  a  heavy  disappointment,  but  noth 
ing  can  ever  alter  my  regard  for  you.  A  man,  I  sup 
pose,  has  no  right  to  blame  a  woman  for  disliking 
him  ;  he  can  only  blame  her  for  misleading  him — " 

The  path  from  the  beach-gate  to  the  house  was  too 
short — too  short,  ah,  by  how  much  !  they  were  already 
at.  the  steps.  Missy  glanced  up  and  saw  more  than 
one  eager  and  curious  pair  of  eyes  gazing  down  upon 
the  tote-a-tete.  It  was  over,  it  was  ended,  and  Missy, 
as  in  a  dream,  walked  up  the  steps  and  into  the  chat 
tering  groups  that  stood  about  the  summer  parlor.  She 
knew  all  now — what  she  had  thrown  away,  what  her 
folly  of  jealousy  had  cost  her.  The  mists  of  suspicion 
and  passion  rolled  away,  and  she  saw  all.  Many  a 
woman,  younger  and  older,  has  seen  the  same,  the  mis 
erable,  inevitable  sight — jealousy  dead,  and  hope  along 
with  it. 

The  cold  wind  had   not  taken  the    flush  out  of  her 


350  A     GARDEN    PARTY. 

cheeks  ;  she  walked  about  the  parlors  and  talked  to  the 
guests,  and,  to  her  own  surprise,  knew  their  names  and 
what  they  said  to  her.  Since  she  had  gone  out  upon 
the  lawn  to  take  the  shawl  to  the  foolish  virgin  there, 
the  world  had  undergone  a  revolution  that  made  her 
stagger.  Such  a  strong  tide  had  borne  her  chance  of 
happiness  away  from  her,  already  almost  out  of  sight, 
she  wondered  that  she  could  stand  firm  and  watch  it 
go.  What  a  babble  of  voices  !  How  wiry  and  shrill 
and  imbecile  the  clanging  of  tongues  !  It  was  all  like  a 
dream.  The  woman  whom  she  had  dreaded,  unmasked 
and  harmless  walked  before  her,  a  trifler  among 
triflers,  a  poor  rival  indeed.  The  man  whom  she  had 
lost  stood  there  silent  in  a  group  of  flippant  talkers, 
more  worthy  and  more  manly  now  that  he  was  beyond 
her  reach.  What  was  the  use  of  regretting  ?  No  use. 
What  was  the  use  of  anything?  No  use. 

Miss  Rothermel  looked  uncommonly  well,  they  said 
to  each  other  driving  home,  almost  pretty,  really,  and 
so  young.  What  could  that  tete-a-tete  have  signified 
between  her  and  Mr.  Andrews?  He  was  evidently  out 
of  spirits.  What  an  odd  tiling  it  would  be  after  all  if 
he  had  really  liked  her.  There  was  something  queer 
about  it  all.  Going  abroad  with  his  cousins,  however, 
didn't  much  look  like  it.  It  was  a  puzzle,  and  they  gave 
it  up. 


P.     P.     0.  351 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

P.  P.  C. 

day  of  that  week  Missy  walked  about 
as  in  a  dream,  and  with  a  single  thought 
in  her  mind.  When  and  how  should  she 
meet  Mr.  Andrews,  and  was  there  any  pos 
sible  hope  to  be  built  upon  the  meeting  ?  A  hundred 
times,  to  be  more  accurate,  a  thousand  times,  she  went 
over  the  scene  ;  she  made  her  confession,  she  entreated 
his  pardon,  she  felt  the  joy  of  perfect  understanding 
and  confidence.  She  met  him  by  the  sea — on  the  cliffs 
— in  the  garden — in  the  library — at  church — by  the 
roadside — sometimes  it  was  alone — sometimes  there 
were  others  in  the  way.  Ah  !  who  does  not  know  what 
ingenuity  fancy  has  to  multiply  those  interviews? 
How  between  troubled  moments  of  sleep  one  goes 
through  scene  after  scene  of  the  ensnaring  drama  ;  un 
derscored,  obliterated,  blotted,  incessantly  altering 
time  and  place — but  through  all  walking  and  speaking 
the  two,  beside  whom  all  other  created  souls  are 
shadows?  Who  does  not  know  the  eloquence,  the 
passion,  the  transport?  Who  has  not  burned  with 
shame  at  the  poor  reality  ;  the  blundering  words,  if 
they  ever  come  to  be  spoken  ;  the  miserable  contradic 
tion  of  Fate,  if  the  interview  ever  comes  about  ? 

There  were  but  six  days  and  nights  for  Missy  to 
dream  and  hope  about  her  reprieve,  and  she  employed, 
them  well.  She  was  white  and  languid-looking  in  the 
moming,  but  from  the  tirst  sound  of  the  knocker,  the 


352  P.     P.      C. 

first  step  heard  upon  the  walk  outside,  a  spot  of  color 
burned  in  her  cheeks,  and  a  strange  glow  shone  from  her 
light  eyes.  She  was  absent-minded,  imperious,  im 
patient.  She  was  living  upon  a  chance,  the  throw  of  a 
dice,  and  she  couldn't  say  her  prayers.  She  wanted 
to  be  let  alone,  and  she  hated  even  her  mother  when 
she  interfered  with  this  desire. 

The  six  days  had  worn  themselves  away  to  one, 
uneventful,  save  for  the  blotted  score  of  Missy's  dreams. 
This  day  must  bring  some  event,  some  occurrence, 
good  or  bad.  It  was  impossible  that  Mr.  Andrews 
would  go  away  and  offer  such  a  disrespect  to,  at  all 
events,  her  mother,  as  not  to  come  and  say  good-bye. 
It  was  a  fixed  fact  in  her  mind  that  he  would  come. 
She  dressed  for  it,  she  waited  for  it,  she  counted  off 
the  moments,  one  by  one.  Not  a  motion  of  wind  in 
the  trees  missed  her  ears,  not  a  carriage  rolled  along  the 
road,  nor  a  step  crossed  the  lawn  that  she  did  not  hear. 

At  last,  in  the  afternoon,  there  came  some  steps  up 
from  the  gate.  A  group  under  the  trees;  for  a  moment 
she  could  not  discern  them,  but  presently  she  saw  he 
was  not  with  them.  There  came  the  two  ladies,  with 
Jay  and  Gabrielle,  Flora  and  the  latter  laughing  and 
romping,  and  apparently  trying  to  get  themselves 
quieted  down  before  entering  the  house  of  their  stiff- 
necked  neighbors.  Missy  came  down  stairs  to  find 
them  talking  with  her  mother  in  the  parlor.  Flora 
was  in  brilliant  spirits,  the  prospect  of  "  dear  Europe  " 
again,  she  said,  had  quite  upset  her.  Mrs.  Eustace  was 
rather  overbearing,  and  less  suave  and  conciliatory 
than  usual.  She  found  herself  so  near  "  dear  Europe  " 
and  a  settlement  for  Flora,  that  she  could  afford  to  be 
natural  for  once.  She  fastened  herself  upon  2\Irs.  Va- 


P.     P.     C.  353 

rian,  and  was  sufficiently  disagreeable  to  cause  even 
that  languid  lady  to  wish  the  visit  over.  Flora,  sweet 
young  thing,  stood  to  her  guns  manfully  till  the  very 
last  minute,  and  made  Missy's  cheeks  burn  and  her 
eyes  glow.  Though  she  knew  she  had  given  her  what 
ever  success  she  would  ever  have,  and  had  played  into 
her  hand,  and  thrown  up  her  own  game  in  a  pel,  she 
could  not  hear  her  calmly. 

"  We  are  all  so  eager  lo  get  off,"  she  said.  "  I  was 
telling  the  Olors  they  mustn't  think  it  uncomplimentary 
to  Yellowcoats,  though  it  does  sound  so  !  I  have  had 
a  lovely  time.  I  never  shall  forget  it  !  A  beatific 
summer  !  And  mamma  has  enjoyed  it,  too,  though 
she  has  had  a  great  deal  of  care  and  worry  getting 
things  into  shape  after  those  dreadful  servants  that  we 
found  there.  Bat  poor  Mr.  Andrews  has  had  such  a 
horrid  time  ever  since  he  took  the  place  that  I  think  he 
fairly  longs  to  get  away,  and  never  see  it  again. 
'  Thank  heaven,  it's  the  last  day  of  it  !'  he  said  this 
morning,  poor  dear  man,  with  such  an  emphasis." 

"Papa  meant  the  hall  stove,"  said  Gabrielle,  in  an 
insinuating  little  voice.  "  Because  it  smoked  so  dread 
fully." 

This  took  Flora  aback  for  a  moment  ;  she  choked  as 
if  somebody  had  hold  of  her  throat,  then,  with  a  sweet 
smile  to  Gabrielle,  "Very  likely  he  said  it  about  the 
hall  stove  too,  dear,"  she  said,  and  putting  her  arms 
around  the  engaging  child's  waist,  went  on  to  ask  Miss 
Rothermel  if  they  meant  to  spend  the  winter  in  the 
country. 

Miss  Rothermel  thought  it  probable,  though  it  was 
not  quite  determined. 

"llo\v    dreary!"    exclaimed    Miss    Eustace.     "It 


354  P.     P.     0. 

passes  me  to  understand  how  yon  can  exist.  I  suppose, 
though,  one  doesn't  mind  it  so  much  as  one  gets — I 
mean — that  is — as  mamma  says — at  my  age —  And 
she  stopped  with  a  pretty  na'ive  embarrassment,  which 
was  surprisingly  well  done.  She  recovered  from  it 
to  say  : 

"And  Mr.  Andrews  tells  us  you  are  so  domestic. 
He  thinks  he  didn't  see  you  once  all  winter  long." 

"No,"  said  Missy.  "  I  don't  remember  seeing  him 
at  all,  all  winter.  But  the  children  came,  and  Jay  was 
a  great  pleasure  to  me." 

"  Fancy,"  cried  Flora,  "being  amused  by  a  child 
to  that  extent.  I  dote  on  children,  but  oh,  I  dote  on 
other  things  too.  Mr.  Andrews  thinks  he  will  settle 
us  at  Florence,  and  if  he  finds  a  satisfactory  governess, 
we  shall  be  free  to  leave  the  children,  and  he  will  take 
us  to  Rome,  and  Naples,  and  there  is  a  talk  of  Spain. 
Oh,  we  spend  all  our  leisure  hours  in  mapping  out 
excursions.  I  tell  mamma  it  is  like  the  Arabian 
Nights.  I  have  only  to  wish  a  thing,  and  it  comes. 
Mr.  Andrews  has  such  a  way  of  ordering  and  carrying 
out  what  you  want,  and  patting  things  through. 
Don't  you  think  so  ?" 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Missy.  "  I  never  traveled 
with  him  and  I  can't  judge." 

"  Well,  I  never  did  either,  except  on  paper,  and 
we've  been  around  the  world  that  way.  But  I  mean  in 
excursions,  picnics,  and  sailing  parties,  and  all  that. 
You  see  he  has  kept  us  busy  this  summer,  always  plan 
ning  something  for  us.  I  don't  think  there  ever  was 
anybody  so  good  as  Gabrielle's  good  papa  !"  cried  the 
young  lady,  giving  Gabrielle  a  little  hug  and  a  kiss. 

Gabrielle  received  this  attention  in  silence,  shoot- 


P.     P.     C.  355 

ing  a  penetrating  glance  across  towards  Missy.  It  is 
probable  that  this  gifted  child  fully  understood  the 
position  of  affairs. 

"But  it  seems  dreadful  to  think  of  you  here  all 
winter,"  pursued  Miss  Eustace.  "Nobody  is  going  to 
stay,  as  far  as  I  can  hear.  And  I  should  think  you'd 
be  afraid,  only  you  three  ladies,  and  yours  the  only 
house  open  anywhere  about.  It  was  a  sort  of  pro 
tection,  last  winter,  when  Mr.  Andrews  was  here,  even 
if  you  didn't  see  him." 

"Yes,  it  was  pleasant  to  feel  the  next  house  was 
inhabited.  But  I  don't  think  there  is  anything  to  be 
afraid  of." 

"  Suppose  you  had  another  fire.  What  a  fright 
you  must  have  had,  Miss  Rotlierrael  !  It  must  have  been 
quite  an  experience.  And  so  droll.  I  suppose  there  is 
always  a  droll  side  to  things,  if  one  has  the  ability  to 
see  it.  Mr.  Andrews  has  told  me  all  about  it.  Doift 
you  think  he  has  a  strong  sense  of  humor,  Miss 
Rolhennel  ?" 

Miss  Flora's  face  expressed  great  amusement  at 
the  recollection  of  something  connected  with  the  fire. 
She  repeated  her  question,  which  Missy  had  not 
answered. 

"  He  is  so  very  quiet,  one  wouldn't  suspect  him  of 
it,  but  don't  you  think  he  has  a  keen  sense  of  the 
ridiculous  ?" 

"  I  have  never  thought  of  it,"  said  Missy.  "  I 
should  rather  have  said  not.  But  of  course  you  know 
him  best." 

"  I've  always  threatened  to  ask  you  some  questions 
about  the  Kre,"  she  continued,  with  merriment  in  her 
eyes.  "  But  lie  made  me  promise  not." 


356  P.     P.     C. 

"  Then  I  don't  see  that  I  can  help  you,"  Miss 
Rothennel  said. 

"  I  shall  be  anxious  to  know  how  you  get  out  of 
the  next  fire,  without  Mr.  Andrews  here  to  see  to  it." 

"I  hope  we  sha'n't  have  another  tire  ;  but  if  we  do, 
we  shall  miss  Mr.  Andrews,  I  am  sure,  for  he  was  most 
kind  in  every  way.  But  it  is  possible  thnt  we  may 
not  be  alone  ;  my  brother  may  spend  the  winter  with 
us  ;  he  is  coming  home  this  autumn." 

"Your  brother  ?  Is  it  possible  ?  That  is  the  young 
— the  young — monk,  that  I've  heard  them  talking  of." 

"  Yes." 

"Oh,  then  I  am  almost  sorry  that  we're  going 
away.  I  had  such  a  curiosity  to  see  him.  Probably 
you  don't  know,  but  I  take  the  greatest  interest  in  the 
Catholic  movement." 

"  I  certainly  had  not  suspected  it." 

"  Oh,  dear  Miss  Rothermel,  how  sarcastically  you 
said  that.  I  find  Mr.  Andrews  was  right  about  that 

"keen,  sarcastic  levity  of  tongue, 
The  stinging  of  a  heart  the  world  hath  stung." 

"Papa  said  that  about  old  Mr.  Yanderveer ;  it 
wasn't  about  Missy,"  put  in  Gabrielle  again,  and  this 
time  she  didn't  get  a  kiss  for  it. 

"  You  are  a  very  pert  little  girl,"  said  Flora,  with 
drawing  her  arm,  "  and  would  be  the  better  for  a  year 
or  two  of  boarding-school." 

Gabrielle  gave  a  frightened  look  at  Missy,  and 
dropped  her  eyes.  At  this  moment  Jay,  on  the  other 
side  of  the  room,  pulled  over  a  stand  of  flowers,  and  in 
consequence  of  the  noise  and  alarm,  began  to  cry. 


P     P.     C.  357 

Missy  ran  to  him,  and  putting  her  arms  around  him, 
whispered  that  he  needn't  care  about  the  flowers,  that 
if  he'd  give  her  a  dear  kiss  and  be  her  own  little  boy 
asrain,  she'd  like  it  better  than  all  the  flowers  in 

~  ' 

America.  This  comforted  him,  and  he  consented  to 
dry  his  eyes,  and  accompany  her  to  the  dining-room, 
to  look  for  cake  on  a  shelf  which  he  knew  of  old. 
Missy  did  not  hurry  to  take  him  back,  and  they  had 
an  old-time  talk,  and  a  great  many  kisses  and  prom 
ises.  He  was  quite  like  himself  when  he  was  away 
from  his  cousins. 

li  You'll  be  a  big  boy  when  I  see  yon  again,  Jay," 
she  said,  "and  you'll  have  forgotten  all  about  me 
when  you  come  back  from  over  the  water." 

"  Why  don't  you  go  'long  with  rne,  then,"  he  said, 
with  a  voice  rendered  husky  by  cake. 

"Oh,  you've  got  your  cousin  Flora.  I  should 
think  she  was  enough  for  any  little  boy." 

"  She  can  go  to  boarding-school  with  Gabby,"  said 
Jay,  settling  himself  closer  into  Missy's  lap,  and  taking 
another  piece  of  cake.  Missy  laughed  at  this  disposi 
tion  of  the  triumphant  young  lady  in  the  other  room. 

"I  don't  know  what  she'd  say  to  that,  nor  papa 
either,"  she  added,  in  a  lower  tone. 

"Papa  wouldn't  mind.  Papa's  a  man,  and  he  can 
do  anything  he  wants  to.  You  can  come  with  us,  and 
you  can  ride  my  pony  that  I'm  going  to  have,  and 
papa  can  drive  you  with  his  horses,  like  he  did  that 
day." 

"  Ah,  Jay,  that  would  be  nice  indeed,  only  I'm 
afraid  Gabby  and  the  two  cousins  wouldn't  agree  to  it." 

"  I'd  make  'em,"  said  Jay.  "  Papa's  going  to  buy 
me  a  little  pistol,  and  I'd  shoot  'em  if  they  didn't." 


358  P.     P.     C. 

In  such  happy  confidences  the  minutes  slipped 
away.  Presently  the  voice  of  Flora  called  Jay  from 
the  hall,  and,  recalled  to  civility,  Missy  took  him  by 
the  hand  and  went  back.  She  found  them  all  standing 
up,  preparing  to  take  leave. 

"  I  am  sorry  to  hurry  you,  Jay,  but  we  must 
go." 

"  Won't  you  please  leave  Jay  to  spend  the  after 
noon  with  me?"  asked  Missy.  "  I  will  send  him  safely 
back  at  whatever  hour  you  say." 

"  That  would  be  very  pleasant,"  said  Mrs.  Eustace, 
"  but  Mr.  Andrews  is  going  to  take  us  for  a  drive, 
and  charged  us  to  be  back  at  four  o'clock,  to  go  with 
him.  He  has  been  hurrying  all  the  morning  to  get 
through  with  everything,  so  that  he  might  be  at  liberty 
to  take  this  drive,  which  is  a  sort  of  farewell  to 
Yellowcoats.  He  seemed  to  want  to  have  the  children 
go,  though  I  am  afraid  we  shall  be  rather  late  getting 
back  for  them.  We  take  ihe  early  train  in  the  morn 
ing,  but  I  believe  everything  is  in  readiness  for  the 
start.  You  may  imagine  I  have  had  my  hands  full, 
Mrs.  Varian." 

Mrs.  Varian  expressed  her  sympathy,  the  good-byes 
were  said,  Missy  held  Jay  tight  in  her  arms,  and  kissed 
his  little  hands  when  she  loosened  them  from  her  own, 
and  watched  the  group  from  the  piazza  as  they  walked 
away. 

Then  he  was  not  coming  Ihis  afternoon.  He  pre 
ferred  a  drive  with  these  ladies,  to  coming  here.  No, 
she  did  not  believe  it  was  any  pleasure  to  him  to  go 
with  them.  lie  had  his  own  reasons.  She  would  rest 
upon  the  belief  that  he  would  come  in  the  evening. 

The  afternoon  was  fine   and  clear,  with  a  touch  of 


P.     P.     C.  359 

autumn  in  the  air.  She  longed  to  be  alone  and  to  be 
free — so,  telling  no  one  of  her  intention,  she  wandered 
away  along  the  beach  and  was  gone  till  after  six 
o'clock.  The  short  day  was  ended  and  dusk  had 
already  fallen.  She  was  little  tired  by  her  long  walk, 
bat  soothed  by  the  solitude,  and  braced  by  the  thought 
of  what  evening  would  surely  bring  her. 

The  lamp  was  newly  lighted  at  one  end  of  the  hall, 
and  was  burning  dimly.  As  she  passed  up  the  stairs, 
her  eye  fell  on  some  small  cards  on  the  dark  table  near 
the  door.  With  a  sudden  misgiving,  she  went  back, 
and  picking  them  up,  went  over  to  the  lamp  to  read 
them.  They  were  three  cards  of  "Mr.  James  An 
drews,"  with  p.p.c.  in  the  corner. 

I  don't  know  exactly  what  Missy  thought  or  felt 
when  she  read  them.  She  stood  a  few  minutes  in  a 
stupid  sort  of  state.  Then,  the  drive  had  been  a  fable, 
and  the  hand  of  fate  was  against  her.  The  precious 
opportunity  was  lost,  while  she  was  wandering  aim 
lessly  along  the  beach,  saying  over  and  over  to  her 
self,  the  words  that  now  never  would  be  spoken.  She 
had  tossed  away  from  her  her  one  chance,  as  she  had 
tossed  pebbles  into  the  water  while  she  walked  that 
afternoon.  She  had  felt  so  secure,  she  had  been  so 
calm.  Now  all  was  over,  and  the  days  and  nights  that 
had  been  given  to  this  meeting  were  days  and  nights  that 
mocked  her  when  she  thought  of  them.  How  she  had 
been  cheated  !  She  realized  fully  that  the  chance  was 
gone.  She  knew  that  months  of  separation,  just  as 
they  were  situated,  would  have  been  enough  to  make  a 
renewal  of  friendship  impossible,  and  here  were  years 
coming  in  between  them.  No,  the  only  moment  that 
she  could  have  spoken  would  have  been  while  the 


300  P.     P.     C. 

recollection  of  what  he  had  said  to  her  the  other  day 
upon  the  lawn,  was  fresh  in  both  their  minds.  Per 
haps,  already,  it  was  too  late  to  revive  any  feeling  for 
her  ;  but  at  least,  she  could  have  tried.  She  hadn't  any 
pride  left.  At  least,  she  thought  she  hadn't,  till,  in  her 
own  room,  she  found  herself  writing  to  him.  Then, 
when  she  saw  the  thing  in  black  and  white,  she  found 
she  had  still  a  little  pride,  or  perhaps,  only  a  sense  of 
decency.  Here  was  a  man  who  hadn't  talked  to  her 
about  love,  who  hadn't  said  anything  that  anybody 
mightn't  have  said  about  an  ordinary  friendship.  She 
knew  quite  well  that  he  meant  more,  but  he  hadn't  said 
more,  and  by  that  she  must  abide.  So  she  tore  her 
letter  up  ;  ah,  the  misery  of  it  all.  She  bathed  her 
eyes  and  smoothed  her  hair,  and  went  stonily  down  to 
tea  when  the  bell  rang.  When  the  tea  bell  rings,  if 
the  death-knell  of  your  happiness  hasn't  done  tolling, 
you  hear  it,  more's  the  marvel. 

The  monotonies  of  Mrs.  Smatter  and  the  asperities 
of  Miss  Varian  for  once  roused  little  opposition. 
Missy  had  a  fevered  sense  of  oppression  from  their 
presence,  but  she  was  too  full  of  other  thoughts  to 
heed  them.  After  tea  there  was  something  to  be  done 
for  her  mother,  who  was  ill  from  the  strain  of  the  af 
ternoon's  visitors,  and  two  or  three  persons  on  business 
had  to  be  attended  to.  She  felt  as  if  she  had  begun  a 
dreadful  round  of  heartless  work  that  would  last  all 
her  life. 

When  at  last  she  was  free  from  these  occupations 
she  threw  a  cloak  around  her  shoulders  and  went  out  on 
the  piazza.  The  night  was  dark  and  still,  an  as  she 
listened  she  could  hear  voices  and  sounds  from  the 
other  house — a  door  close,  a  window  put  down,  a  call 


P.     P.      0.  361 

to  a  dog,  the  rattle  of  his  chain.  Then  she  heard  the 
shrill  whistle,  which  she  knew  was  the  summons  for 
the  man  from  the  stable,  and  after  a  few  moments  she 
heard  Mr.  Andrews'  voice  on  the  piazza. 

With  an  impulse  that  she  made  no  attempt  to 
resist,  she  went  down  the  steps  and  ran  quickly  across 
the  lawn,  and,  standing  behind  the  gate,  under  the 
heavy  shadow  of  the  trees,  strained  her  eyes  through 
the  darkness,  and  gazed  over  toward  the  next  house. 
Mr.  Andrews  was  talking  with  the  man,  who  presently 
went  away,  and  then  he  walked  up  and  down  on  the 
piazza  slowly;  it  was  easy  to  hear  his  regular  tread  upon 
the  boards,  and  to  see  a  dark  figure  cross  the  lighted 
windows.  That  was  as  near  as  he  would  ever  be  to 
her  again,  perhaps. 

After  a  few  moments  he  oame  down  the  steps, 
walked  slowly  along  the  path,  and  stood  leaning  against 
the  gate.  She  could  see  the  spark  of  his  cigar.  They 
were  not  two  hundred  feet  apart.  If  she  had  spoken  in 
her  ordinary  tone,  he  could  have  heard  her  ;  the  still 
ness  of  the  night  was  unusual.  There  was  no  breeze, 
no  rustle  of  the  leaves  overhead  ;  no  one  was  moving, 
apparently,  at  either  house — no  one  passing  along  the 
road.  Her  heart  beat  so  violently  she  put  both  hands 
over  it  to  smother  the  sound.  Why  should  she  not 
speak  ?  It  was  her  last  chance,  her  very  last.  If  the 
night  had  not  been  so  dark,  she  might  have  spoken.  If 
the  stars  had  been  shining,  or  moonlight  had  made  it 
possible  for  them  to  see  each  other,  if  the  hour  had 
been  earlier,  if  there  had  been  any  issue  but  one,  from 
the  speaking — if,  in  fact,  it  were  not  what  it  was,  to 
speak,  she  m-ight  have  spoken. 

The  minutes  passed — how  long,  and  yet  how  swift, 
16 


362  P.     P.     (7. 

they  were  in  passing.  She  had  made  no  decision  in 
her  own  mind  what  to  do  ;  she  meant  to  speak,  and 
yet  something  in  her  held  her  back  from  speaking. 
There  are  some  things  we  do  without  thought,  they  do 
themselves  without  any  help  from  us,  and  so  this  thing 
was  done,  and  a  great  moment  in  two  lives  was  lost — 
or  gained  perhaps,  who  knows  ?  She  stood  spell-bound 
as  she  saw  the  tiny  spark  of  light  waver,  then,  tossed 
away,  drop  down  and  go  out  in  the  damp  grass.  Then 
she  heard  him  turn  and  go  slowly  towards  the  house — 
always  slowly,  she  could  have  spoken  a  hundred  times 
before  he  reached  the  piazza  steps.  Then  he  took  a 
turn  or  two  up  and  down  the  piazza,  and  then,  opening 
the  front  door,  went  in,  shutting  it  behind  him. 

It  was  not  till  that  door  shut,  that  Missy  realized 
what  had  come  to  pass  in  her  life,  and  what  she  had 
done,  or  left  undone.  A  great  blankness  and  dreariness 
settled  down  upon  her  with  an  instant  pall.  She  did  not 
blame  herself — she  could  not  have  spoken,  no  woman 
of  her  make  could  have  spoken.  She  did  not  blame 
herself,  but  she  blamed  her  fate,  that  put  her  where 
she  stood,  that  made  her  as  she  was.  An  angry  re 
bellion  slowly  awoke  within  her.  It  is  safer  to  blame 
yourself  than  to  blame  fate.  Poor  Missy  took  the  un- 
safest  way,  and  went  into  the  house,  hardening  her 
heart,  and  resisting  the  destiny  that  lay  before  her. 


SHUT    AND    BABItED.  863 

CHAPTER   XXIV. 

SHUT   AND    BARRED. 

HE  destiny  that  lay  before  her  was  a  litttle 
harder  than  even  she  knew,  when  she  went 
into  the  hall  that  night,  throwing  off  the 
damp  cloak  that  she  had  worn,  and 
mechanically  walking  to  the  fire  in  the  library  to  warm 
herself,  after  her  half-hour  in  the  chilly  night  air.  She 
thought  she  knew  how  dull  and  hateful  her  life  was 
to  be,  how  lonely,  how  uneventful.  She  was  still 
young — twenty-seven  is  young  when  you  are  twenty- 
seven,  not,  of  course,  when  you  are  seventeen.  She  had 
just  found  out  what  it  is,  to  have  life  full  and  intense 
in  emotion  and  interest,  and  now  she  was  turned  back 
into  the  old  path  that  had  seemed  good  enough  before, 
when  she  did  not  know  any  better  one.  But  still,  with 
resolute  courage,  she  said  to  herself,  her  mother,  and 
duty,  and  study,  and  health,  and  money,  might  do 
something  for  her  yet,  and,  after  a  year  or  two  of 
bitterness,  restore  her  to  content  and  usefulness. 

These  things  she  said  to  herself,  not  on  that  first 
night  of  pain,  but  the  next  day,  when  she  walked  past 
the  shut-up  house,  and  wondered,  under  the  cold  gray 
sky,  at  the  strength  of  the  emotion  that  had  filled  her 
as  she  had  watched,  through  the  darkness,  the  glimmer 
of  the  cigar  spark  by  the  gate.  Thank  heaven,  she 
hadn't  spoken  !  She  knew  just  as  well  now  what 
she  had  lost,  as  then,  but  daylight,  and  eatt  wind, 
level  values  inevitably.  It  was  all  worth  less — 


364  SHUT    AND     BARRED. 

living  and  dying,  love  and  loneliness.     She  could  bear 
what  she  had  chosen,  she  hadn't  any  doubt. 

How  gloomy  the  day  was  !  Raw  and  chill,  and  yet 
not  cold  enough  to  brace  the  nerves.  The  gate  stood 
ajar.  Missy  pushed  through  it,  and  walked  down  the 
path.  Some  straw  littered  the  piazza  steps  ;  an  empty 
paper  box  lay  on  the  grass.  The  windows  were  all 
closed.  Only  the  dog,  still  chained  to  his  kennel, 
bowled  her  a  dismal  welcome.  He  was  to  go,  proba 
bly,  to  some  new  home  that  day.  Well,  Missy  thought 
bitterly,  he  will  at  least  have  novelty  to  divert  him. 

She  didn't  go.  on  the  piazza  ;  she  remembered,  with 
a  sense  of  shame,  the  last  time  she  had  crossed  that 
threshold,  saying  it  should  be  the  last  time.  What  a 
tempest  of  jealousy  and  anger  had  been  in  her  heart  ! 
Oh,  the  folly  of  it  (not  to  say  the  sin  of  it).  How 
she  had  been  conquered  by  those  two  women  (not  to 
say  the  enemy  of  souls).  She  could  see  it  all  so  clearly 
now.  Every  word  and  look  and  gesture  of  Mr.  An 
drews  took  a  different  meaning,  now  she  was  in  her 
senses.  That  dinner  had  been  his  last  hope,  his  last 
attempt  to  conciliate  her.  She  had  repulsed  him  more 
sharply  than  ever  that  night,  stung  as  she  was  by  the 
insults  of  her  two  rivals.  After  that,  he  had  made  his 
plans  to  go  away  and  end  the  matter.  Miss  Flora 
might  thank  her  for  "  dear  Europe,"  this  time. 

But  poor  little  Jay,  what  had  he  to  thank  her  for? 
Ah  !  that  gave  her  heart  a  pinch  to  think  of.  Poor 
little  Jay  might  set  down  as  the  sum  of  his  grat 
itude  to  her,  a  miserable  youth,  a  mercenary  rule  at 
home,  deceit  and  worldliness,  low  aims,  and  selfishness, 
that  would  drive  him  shelterless  into  the  world  to  find 
his  pleasure  there.  For  Missy  never  doubted  that  Flora 


SHUT    AND     BARRED.  365 

would  fain  her  end.     She  knew  Mr.  Andrews  was  not 

O 

clever  enough  to  stand  out  very  long.  "He's  just  the 
sort  of  man,"  she  said  to  herself,  "to  be  married  by 
somebody  who  is  persistent.  He  doesn't  know  women 
well  enough  to  stand  out  against  them.  He  will  give 
in  for  the  children's  sake,  he  won't  care  for  his  own. 
And  he  will  spend  a  life  of  homeless  wretchedness, 
silent  and  stolid,  protecting  the  woman  who  is  cheating 
him,  laboring  for  the  children  who  will  disappoint  him. 
Ah  !  my  little  Jay,  forgive  me,"  she  cried,  stooping 
and  picking  up  a  broken  whip  of  his  that  lay  in  the 
grass  beside  the  path. 

Everybody  makes  mistakes,  but  it  isn't  often  given 
to  any  one  to  make  such  a  wholesale  one  as  this.  We 
must  be  charitable  to  Missy  if  she  was  bitter  and 
gloomy  that  dark  morning.  She  wandered  about  the 
paths  for  a  little  while  longer,  then,  picking  a  few 
artemesias  that  grew  close  up  by  the  house,  she  turned 
to  go  away.  At  the  gate  she  met  a  boy  with  a  yellow 
envelope  in  his  hand.  He  was  just  going  tr  her  house, 
he  explained,  presenting  the  envelope.  It  was  a  tele 
gram,  and  Missy  opened  it  hastily. 

"  It  is  all  right,"  she  said,  giving  him  the  money, 
and  putting  the  paper  in  her  pocket.  We  are  apt  to  be 
very  selfish  when  we  are  miserable,  and  Missy's  first 
thought  on  reading  the  message  was  a  selfish  one.  The 
message  was  from  her  brother.  He  had  just  landed, 
and  would  be  at  home  that  evening.  She  did  not  think 
of  the  joy  it  would  be  to  her  mother,  of  the  joy  it 
might  have  been  to  her;  she  only  thought,  "Thank 
Heaven,  this  will  give  me  something  else  to  think  of 
for  a  little  while."  She  was  quite  bent  upon  curing 


366  AMICE    ASCENDS    SUPERIUS. 

herself,  even  at  this  early  date  ;  but  with  the  supreme 
selfishness  of  great  disappointment,  she  thought  of 
nothing  but  as  it  influenced  her  trouble. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

AMICE   ASCENDE   SUPERIUS. 

T.  JOHN'S  coming  did  not  prove  much  help 
to  her.  It  separated  her  from  her  mother, 
and  gave  her  a  more  lonely  feeling  even 
than  before.  She  was  further  off  than  ever 
from  sympathy  with  them.  She  was  smarting  over  the 
loss  of  what  they  were  giving  up.  Their  lives  looked 
heavenward,  hers,  she  did  not  disguise  it  from  herself, 
looked,  earthward,  and  earthward  only.  Their  exalted 
faith  had  upon  her  simply  the  effect  of  depressing  her 
own.  She  had  a  supreme  estimate  of  common  sense. 
She  quite  made  it  her  rule  of  life  just  now.  What 
ever  was  opposed  to  it,  she  was  ready  to  condemn  ; 
and,  it  must  be  admitted,  there  was  a  good  deal  in  the 
lives  of  St.  John  and  hi?  mother  that  did  not  bear  its 
stamp.  Tried  by  its  standard  alone,  in  fact,  it  would 
have  been  difficult  to  find  two  people  who  were  wasting 
their  time  more  utterly.  This  Missy  was  not  backward 
in  saying  to  herself,  and  in  suggesting  to  them,  as  far  as 
she  dared.  That  was  not  very  far,  for  there  was  some 
thing  about  St.  John  that  prevented  people  from  taking 
liberties  with  him.  His  reality,  sincerity,  and  simplicity 
of  aim  commanded  the  respect  that  his  humility  never 
claimed.  No  one  felt  it  possible  to  remonstrate  with 


AMICE    A8CENDE    SUPERIUS.  367 

him,  however  much  inclined  to  blame.  Dignity  would 
have  been  his  last  aspiration,  rather  his  abhorrence  ; 
but  his  self-less-ness  answered  pretty  much  the  same 
purpose.  The  thing  we  are  most  apt  to  resent  in 
others  is  personal  claim  to — anything.  When  a  man 
claims  nothing,  and  has  given  himself  away,  we  can't 
quarrel  with  him,  however  poor  a  bargain  we  may  con 
sider  he  has  made.  Neither  was  it  possible  to  pity  St. 
John,  or  to  feel  contempt  for  him.  The  natural  force 
of  his  character  forbade  that,  and  (those  who  sympa 
thized  with  him  would  say)  the  grandeur  of  his  pur 
pose. 

So  it  was  that  his  aunt  fretted  and  scolded  about 
him  to  his  mother,  and  made  her  life  a  burden  to  her, 
but  in  his  presence  was  quite  silent  about  the  matter  of 
his  vocation,  and  much  more  agreeable  and  well  be 
haved  than  in  anybody  else's  presence.  And  Mrs. 
Hazard  Smatter  was  quite  unable  to  ask  him  questions 
or  to  gain  information  from  him.  Very  soon  after 
his  arrival,  oppressed  no  doubt  by  the  mediaeval  murk- 
iness  of  the  atmosphere,  and  the  unfamiliarity  of  the 
situation,  she  quietly  gathered  up  her  notes  and 
queries  and  prepared  to  wing  her  way  to  more  specu 
lative  regions  and  a  freer  air.  Even  Goneril's  tongue 
was  tame  when  he  was  by,  though  she  beat  and 
brushed  and  shook  his  black  habit  as  if  it  were  the 
Pope,  and  harangued  about  the  Inquisition  to  her  fel 
low-servants  by  the  hour  together. 

This  same  black  habit  was  a  great  snare  to  Missy. 
She  always  spoke  of  it  to  her  mother  as  "  his  costume," 
as  if  it  had  come  from  Worth's  ;  and  it  was  a  good 
many  days  before  she  could  be  resigned  to  his  walking 


368  AMICE    ASCENDE    SUPERIU8. 

through  the  village.  She  even  importuned  her  mother 
to  beg  him  to  give  it  up  during  his  visit  home. 

"  In  the  name  of  common  sense,  mamma,"  she  ex 
claimed,  "why  need  he  disedify  these  country  people, 
over  whom  he  has  some  influence,  by  this  puerile  affec 
tation  ?  What  virtue  is  there  in  that  extra  yard  or  two 
of  cloth  ?  He  could  save  souls  in  a  pea-jacket,  I  should 
think,  if  he  were  in  earnest  in  the  matter." 

It  was  rather  hard  on  Mrs.  Varian  to  have  to  bear 
all  these  criticisms.  That  she  had  to  bear  them  came 
of  her  natural  sweetness  and  softness,  which  led  every 
one,  beginning  with  Missy,  to  dictate  to  her.  But 
there  was  something  even  harder  than  this,  that  fell  to 
her  share  of  the  oblation.  She  had  to  tell  Missy  of 
something  very  bitter,  and  to  endeavor  to  reconcile 
her  to  it.  She  had  prepared  herself  for  it,  in  many 
silent  hours,  but  it  is  hard,  always,  to  give  pain,  harder, 
to  some  natures,  than  to,bear  it. 

It  was  one  evening,  when  Missy  came  to  her  room 
for  her  good-night  kiss,  that  she  chose.  St.  John  had 
gone  away  to  be  gone  two  or  three  days,  and  it  is 
probable  that  the  hour  had  been  settled  upon  for  a 
long  while.  But  prepared  as  she  was,  there  was  a 
tremble  in  her  voice  when  she  said  : 

"  Come  and  sit  down  by  me  for  a  little  while.  I 
have  something  to  say  to  you,"  that  made  Missy  feel, 
with  a  sharp  tightening  across  her  heart,  that  there 
was  something  painful  coming. 

She  sat  down  where  the  light  of  the  lamp  did  not 
fall  upon  her  and  said,  with  a  forced  calmness,  as  she 
bent  forward  to  do  something  to  the  fire, 

"Well,  mamma,  what  is  it?  If  you  have  anything 
to  say  to  me,  of  course  it  must  be  nice." 


AMICE    ASCENDE    SUPERIUS.  369 

"You  don't  always  think  so,  I'm  afraid,  my  child," 
said  her  mother,  with  a  sigh.  "I  wish  that  I  might 
never  have  anything  to  tell  you  that  did  not  give  you 
pleasure." 

"  Which  is  equivalent  to  telling  me  you  have  some 
thing  to  tell  rne  that  will  give  me  pain.  Pray  don't 
mind  it.  I  ought  to  be  used  to  hearing  things  I  don't 
like  by  this  time,  don't  you  think  I  ought?" 

"  Most  of  us  have  to  hear  things  that  are  painful, 
more  or  less  often  in  our  lives — and  change  is  almost 
always  painful  to  natures  like  yours,  Missy." 

"  Oh,  as  to  that,  sometimes  I  have  felt,  lately,  that 
change  would  be  more  acceptable  than  anything.  So 
don't  be  afraid.  Perhaps  you  will  find  it  will  be  good 
news,  after  all." 

"  I  earnestly  wish  so.  Of  this  I  am  confident,  one 
day  you  will  feel  it  was  what  was  best,  whether  it  gave 
you  pain  or  not  at  first." 

"  Proceed,  mamma,  proceed  !  If  there  is  anything 
that  rasps  my  nerves  it  is  to  see  the  knife  gleaming 
about  in  the  folds  of  your  dress,  while  I  see  you  are 
trying  to  hide  it,  and  I  am  doubtful  which  part  of  me  is 
doomed  to  the  stroke.  Anything  but  suspense.  What 
is  it,  who  is  it  this  time  ?  We  don't  slay  the  slain,  so  it 
can't  be  St.  John.  You  are  not  going  to  ask  me  to 
mourn  him  again  ?" 

"No,  Missy,  and  I  am  not  going  to  ask  you  to 
mourn  at  all." 

"  Oh,  excuse  me.  But  you  know  I  will  mourn,  being 
so  blinded  and  carnal.    Mamma,  let  me  have  it  in  plain 
English.     What  sacrifice  am  I  to  be  called  upon  to 
make  now  ?     Is  it  you,  or  my  home,  or  what  ?" 
16* 


370  AMICE    A8GENDE    SUPERIUS. 

"  Both,  my  child,  if  you  will  put  it  so — I  cannot 
make  it  easy." 

Missy  started  to  her  feet,  and  stood  very  pale  be 
side  her  mother's  sofa. 

"You  have  shown  so  little  sympathy  with  St. 
John's  plans,  that  I  have  been  unable  to  ask  you  to 
share  in  their  discussion,  as  day  after  day  they  have 
matured.  You  know  the  house  belongs  to  him,  he  has 
given  up  all — you  can  see  what  it  involves." 

"  I  see,  and  his  mother  is  to  be  turned  out  of  house 
and  home,  to  satisfy  his  ultra  piety." 

"Missy,  let  me  speak  quickly,  and  have  done.  I 
cannot  bear  this  any  better  than  you.  It  is  impossible 
for  me  to  give  myself  up  as  St.  John  has  given  him 
self.  I  have  no  longer  youth  and  health  to  offer.  But 
there  is  one  thing  I  can  do,  and  that  is  not  to  stand  in 
his  way — and  another.  Hear  me  patiently,  Missy  ;  I 
know  it  will  be  pain  to  you;  I  am  going  to  identify 
myself  with  his  work  in  a  certain  way." 

"  You  !  What  am  I  hearing?  Are  you  going  to 
India,  to  Africa  ? — I  am  prepared  for  anything." 

"No,  Missy.  Your  brother's  India  is  very  near  at 
hand.  His  order  are  establishing  a  house  in  one  of 
the  worst  parts  of  the  city.  Next  to  the  church  which 
they  have  bought — " 

"  "With  his  money,"  interpolated  Missy. 

"  With  his  money,  if  you  choose  ;  next  to  the  church 
which  they  have  bought — there  is  a  house  which  I  am 
going  to  buy.  It  may  be  the  starting  point  for  the 
work  of  a  sisterhood,  it  may  be  a  refuge,  a  shelter  for 
whoever  needs  refuge  or  shelter.  It  is  given — its  uses 
•will  be  shown  if  God  accepts  it." 


AMICE    ASCENDE    SUPERIU8.  371 

"  And  you  ?"  said  Missy,  in  a  smothered  voice, 
standing  still  and  white-faced  before  her. 

"  And  I — am  going  to  live  there,  Missy,  and  do  the 
work  that  God  appoints  me,  or  bear  the  inaction  that 
He  deems  to  be  ray  part.  It  is  a  poor  offering  and  no 
sacrifice,  for  it  is  the  life  1  crave.  Only  as  to  the  suffer 
ing  I  lay  on  you,  I  shrink  from.  God  knows,  if  you 
could  only  sympathise  with  me  and  go  too — what  a 
weight  would  be  lifted  off  my  heart; — but  I  feel  I  cannot 
hope  for  that.  It  is  always  open  to  you,  and  I  shall 
always  pray  that  it  may  come  to  pass,  and  we  shall  not 
really  be  separated  so  very  much.  I  shall  not,  per 
haps,  be  bound  by  any  rule,  and  if  my  health  suffers  or 
if  you  need  me  ever,  I  shall  always  be  free  to  come 
to  you — 

"  Let  me  understand,"  said  Missy,  in  an  unnatural 
voice,  sitting  down  upon  the  nearest  chair.  "  You  go 
too  fast  for  me.  Where  am  I  to  be,  when  you  are  to 
feel  free  to  come  to  me  ?  This  house  is  no  longer  to  be 
our  home,  you  say.  What  is  to  be  my  home?  What 
plans,  if  any,  have  you  made  for  me?  Don't  go  any 
further,  please,  till  I  comprehend  the  situation  of 
things  a  little  better.  This  staggers  me,  and  I — don't 
know  exactly  what  it  all  means." 

She  put  her  hands  before  her  face  fora  moment, 
but  then  quickly  withdrew  them  and  folding  them  in 
her  lap,  sat  silent  till  her  mother  spoke. 

"  The  house  was  inevitable,  of  course  I  always  knew 
that — and  St.  John  is  now  of  age.  I  do  not  know 
whether  you  had  thought  of  it,  I  supposed  you  had." 

"  It  never  had  occurred  to  me.  I  had  forgotten 
that  the  house  was  left  to  him." 

"And  our  united  income,  Missy,  yours  and  mine, 


372  AMICE    ASCENDE    SUPERIUS. 

would  have  been  seriously  crippled  if  \ve  had  at 
tempted  to  buy  it  from  him,  and  to  keep  it  up.  This 
is  an  expensive  place,  and  it  would  make  you  unhappy 
to  see  it  less  well  kept  than  formerly.  Even  if — if  I 
had  not  resolved  upon  this  step  for  myself,  it  would 
scarcely  have  been  possible  to  have  remained  here,  at 
least,  as  we  have  been.  This  has  been  a  great  care 
and  anxiety  to  me  for  many  months.  It  would  have 
been  a  great  relief  to  me  to  have  spoken  to  you,  but 
your  want  of  sympathy  in  St.  John's  work,  made  it  im 
possible  for  me  to  talk  to  you  about  it.  It  has  seemed  so 
to  St.  John  and  me — we  have  given  it  much  anxious 
thought — that  the  income  from  your  father's  property 
which  I  have  settled  all  on  you,  is  ample  for  your 
maintenance  any  where  you  choose  to  live.  But — to 
me  it  has  seemed  a  good  plan,  that  you  should  take  the 
old  Roncevalle  house  across  the  way,  with  Aunt  Har 
riet,  and  live  there.  It  is  vacant  now  you  know,  it  is 
comfortable,  the  rent  is  low — " 

Missy's  eyes  gave  forth  a  sudden  glow  of  light  ; 
she  started  to  lyfer  feet,  but  then  sank  4>ack  upon  her 
chair  again. 

"Mamma,  that  is  too  much — that  is  more  than  I 
can  stand.  The  home  is  to  be  broken  up — my  whole 
life  is  to  be  laid  waste.  I  am  no  longer  set  in  a 
family — I  am  adrift — I  am  motherless  and  homeless — 
but  that  is  not  what  I  complain  of.  I  only  ask,  why 
am  I  to  take  up  the  unpleasantest  duty  of  your  life  ? 
Why  am  I  to  be  burdened  with  a  blind,  infirm  and 
hateful  woman  who  is  in  no  way  related  to  me  by  ties 
of  blood  or  of  affection  ?  A  beautiful  home  you  have 
mapped  out  for  me  !  An  enchanting  future  !  It 
seems  to  me  you  must  think  better  of  me  than  I  have 


AMICE    ASCEND E    SUPERIUS.  373 

ever   been  led   to  believe   you    did,   if   you  think   me 
capable  of  such  self-sacrifice." 

"It  is  for  you  to  take  it  up  or  lay  it  down  as  suits 
you,  Missy.  If  Harriet  will  come  with  me,  you  know 
she  will  have  a  home  and  all  the  care  that  I  can  give 
her.  But  you  can  see  that  it  is  of  no  use  to  make 
such  a  proposition  now.  When  she  is  older  and  more 
broken,  she  may  be  glad  of  the  refuge  we  can  give 
her,  but  now  it  would  be  in  vain  to  think  of  it.  And 
you,  oh  my  child,  do  not  be  unkind  when  you  think 
of  what  I  have  done.  Reflect  that  I  have  given  to 
you  my  life,  for  twenty-seven  years.  All  that  I  have 
had  has  been  yours,  all  that  I  have  would  still  be 
yours,  if  you  would  share  it  in  the  consecrated  retire 
ment  to  which  I  now  feel  called.  It  would  be  the 
dearest  wish  of  my  heart  fulfilled,  if  I  could  have  you 
with  me  there.  There  would  be  scope  for  your 

energy,  for  all  your  talents,  in  the  work  that  lies  be- 

3b 
fore  us.     But,  I  know  I  must   not  dream  of  'this  till 

you  see  things  differently." 

"No,"  said  Missy,  in  a  cold,  hard  tone.  "You 
have  one  child,  with  whom  your  sympathy  is  perfect. 
He  must  suffice.  Live  for  him  now;  I  have  had  my 
share,  no  doubt." 

"  Missy  !  do  not  break  my  heart ;  I  am  not  going  to 
live  for  St.  John.  I  am  not  going  away  from  you  for 
any  human  companionship.  How  can  I  talk  to  you? 
How  explain  what  I  feel,  when  you  will  not,  cannot 
understand  '?" 

"  No,  I  cannot  understand,"  cried  Missy,  with  a 
sudden  burst  of  tears.  "  Oh  mother,  mother,  how  can 
you  go  away  from  me  ?  How  can  you  leave  me  in  this 


374  AMICE    ASCENDE    SUPERIU8. 

frightful  loneliness  ?     I  am  not  to  you  what  you  are 
to  me  or  you  would  never  do  it." 

"  Missy,  you  could  have  done  it.  I  have  not  read 
your  face  in  vain  for  these  last  few  weeks.  You  could 
have  done  it,  and  you  would.  I  cannot  make  a  com 
parison  between  the  affection  that  would  have  satisfied 
you  to  leave  me — and  the — the  feeling  of  my  heart 
that  draws  me  out  of  the  world  into  stillness,  retreat, 
consecration.  I  cannot  explain,  cannot  talk  of  it.  If 
you  do  not  understand,  you  cannot.  It  is  no  sacrifice, 
except  the  being  separated  from  you — that  will  be  the 
pain  hidden  in  my  joy,  as  it  would  have  been  the  pain 
hidden  in  your  joy  if  you  had  married.  The  pain 
would  not  have  killed  the  joy,  nor  made  you  give  it 
up.  This  is  not  the  enthusiasm  of  a  moment,  Missy. 
It  is  what  has  come  of  long,  long  years  of  silence  and 
of  thought.  A  way  has  opened,  beyond  my  hopes — 
possibi^ties  of  acceptance — of  advance.  There  is  a 
greafld^k  to  be  done  :  I  must  not  hold  it  back  from 
humility,  from  timidity.  It  seems  so  unspeakable  a 
bliss  that  I — stranded — useless — wrecked — should  be 
made  a  part  of  anything  given  to  the  glory  of  God. 
I  daily  fear  it  may  be  presumption  to  dream  of  such  a 
thing,  and  that  I  shall  be  rebuked  and  checked.  But 
even  if  I  am,  my  offering  is  made — all — for  Him  to 
take  or  leave.  All  !  ah,  poor  and  miserable  all,  '  the 
dregs  of  a  polluted  life  !'  Would  that  from  the  first 
moment  that  I  drew  my  breath  my  soul  had  readied 
up  to  Him  with  its  every  affection — with  its  every 
aspiration  !  Oh  '  that  I  might  love  Him  as  well  as  ever 
any  creature  loved  Him  ! '  That  patience  and  peni 
tence  might  win  Him  to  forget  the  wasted  past,  and 
restore  the  blighted  years  that  are  gone  from  me  ! " 


AMICE  -ASCENDS    SUPERIU8.  375 

She  hid  her  face  in  her  hands,  and  Missy,  sinking 
down  on  the  floor  beside  her,  cried  out,  with  tears  : 

"  Why  cannot  you  serve  Him  and  love  Him  here 
as  you  have  always  done,  all  your  good  and  holy  life  ! 
Why  can't  you  worship  Him  in  the  old  way,  and  be 
satisfied  with  doing  your  duty  in  your  own  home,  and 
staying  with  those  who  need  you,  and  whom  He  has 
given  you  to  love  and  care  for  !  Oh,  mamma,  this  is 
some  great  and  terrible  mistake.  Think  before  it  is 
too  late  !" 

m 

"Listen.  Missy,"  she  said,  after  a  few  moments; 
her  brief  emotion  passed.  "  Listen,  and  these  are 
words  of  truth  and  soberness.  I  am  useless  here. 
There  is  a  possibility  there  I  might  be  of  some  humble 
service.  You  are  more  capable  of  managing  and 
directing  in  every  day  matters  than  I  ever  was.  You 
are  no  longer  a  young  girl.  I  leave  you  with  conven 
tional  propriety,  for  your  Aunt  Harriet  is  all  that  is 
requisite  before  the  world.  If  you  make  it  a  question 
of  family  duty,  St.  John  is  many  years  younger  than 
you,  and  may  need  me  more.  The  home  here  is  ex 
pensive,  luxurious.  The  money  is  wanted  for  the  sav 
ing  of  the  souls  and  bodies  of  Christ's  poor.  To  me 
there  seems  no  question.  I  wish  there  might  not  be 
to  you.  If  it  were  a  matter  of  the  cloister,  I  might 
waver,  it  is  possible.  I  am  not  permitted  to  go  that 
length  in  my  oblation.  I  am  now  only  separating 
myself  from  you  by  the  length  of  time  that  you  choose 
to  stay  away  from  me.  In  a  house  such  as  this  is  de 
signed  to  be,  you  could  always  have  your  place,  your 
share  of  work  and  interest.  We  shall  win  you  to  it, 
dear  child  ;  when  you  see  what  it  is,  your  prejudice 
will  wear  away." 


376  AMICE    A8CENDE    SUPERIU8. 

"Prejudice  !"  cried  Missy,  passionately.  "  What 
is  not  prejudice?  Yours  and  St.  John's  have  cost  me 
dear.  Oh,  mamma,  how  could  you  have  had  such  an 
alien  child  ?  Why  must  we  see  everything  in  such  a 
different  light?  You  and  St.  John  are  always  of  one 
mind.  I  am  shut  out  from  you  by  such  a  wall.  I  am 
so  lonely,  so  wretched,  and  perhaps  you  can't  under 
stand  enough  to  pity  me.  Oh,  mamma,  you  are  all  I 
have  in  the  world  !  Don't  go  away  and  leave  me  ! 
Don't  break  up  this  home,  which  must  be  dear  to  you  ; 
don't  turn  away  from  what  your  heart  says  always. 
It  can't  be  wrong  to  love  your  home,  it  can't  be  wrong 
to  be  sorry  for  your  child.  Oh,  what  misery  is  come 
upon  me  !  Mamma,  mamma,  you  will  kill  me  if  you 
go  away  !  You  must  not,  cannot,  shall  not  go  !" 

From  such  scenes  as  this,  it  is  better,  perhaps,  to 
turn  away.  When  men  are  not  of  one  mind  in  a  house, 
how  sore  the  strife  it  brings — how  long  and  bitter  the 
struggle  when  love  is  wrestling  with  love,  but  when 
self  is  mixed  up  in  the  war.  It  was  a  longer  and 
crueller  struggle  than  she  had  foreseen.  Missy  could 
see  no  light  in  the  future,  and  grew  no  nearer  being 
reconciled.  Day  after  day  passed,  scene  after  scene  of 
wretchedness,  alternate  pleading  and  reproaching, 
reasoning  and  rebellion.  From  St.  John,  Missy  could 
not  bear  a  word.  She  refused  to  treat  with  him,  but 
threw  herself  upon  her  mother.  Those  were  dark  and 
troubled  days.  St.  John  looked  a  little  paler  than 
usual  ;  the  mother  was  worn  and  tortured,  but  gave 
no  sign  of  relenting.  A  gentle,  pliant  nature  seems 
sometimes  more  firm  for  such  an  assault  as  this.  At 
last,  all  discussion  of  it  was  given  up  ;  Missy,  harden 
ing  herself,  went  about  the  house  cold-eyed,  imperious, 


AMICE    ASCENDS    SUPERIUS.  377 

impatient.  St.  John  was  absent  much  of  the  time — 
Miss  Varian  had  not  yet  been  informed  what  was  in 
store  for  her  ;  aU  tacitly  put  off  that  very  evil  day. 

Meanwhile  the  preparations  for  the  change  went 
qnietly  on.  The  old  Roncevalle  house  was  one  that  be 
longed  to  the  Varians;  having  been  bought  by  Mr.Var- 
ian  in  those  lordly  days,  when  laying  field  to  field,  and 
house  to  house,  seems  the  natural  outlet  of  egotism  and 
youth.  Felix  Varian,  young  and  used  to  success,  had  the 
aspirations  of  most  young  and  wealthy  men.  He  pro 
posed  in  the  first  flush  of  satisfaction  in  his  home,  to 
make  it  a  fine  estate,  worthy  of  his  name  and  of  the 
yellow-haired  baby,  who  had  now  grown  up  to  wear 
a  black  habit  and  a  girdle  round  his  waist.  He  bought 
right  and  left,  and  made  some  rather  unprofitable 
purchases.  His  early  death  left  matters  somewhat  in 
volved,  but  yet,  when  all  was  settled  up,  the  Varians 
were  still  a  wealthy  family,  and  the  young  heir  had  a 
good  deal  to  take  with  him  to  his  work  in  that  dirty 
down-town  street,  of  which  Missy  thought  with  such 
loathing  and  contempt,  and  he  with  such  fervor  of 
hope.  Missy's  father  had  had  a  comfortable  little 
property,  which  had  been  thriftily  managed,  and  this 
was  now  to  be  hers  exclusively.  It  was  by  no  means 
a  princely  settlement,  but  it  was  quite  as  much  as  au 
unmarried  woman  needed  to  live  comfortably  upon, 
and  she  felt  that  her  mother  had  done  quite  right  in 
not  offering  her  a  cent  of  the  Varian  money,  which  she 
never  would  have  touched.  She  had  hated  her  step 
father  fervently  as  a  child  ;  now  she  felt  strangely 
drawn  to  him,  and  as  if  they  had  a  common  injury. 
How  he  would  have  scorned  this  infatuation,  and  re- 


378  AMICE    ASCENDE    SUPERIUS. 

sented  this  appropriation  of  his  gorgeous  and  luxurious 
gold. 

The  Roucevalle  house  had  always  been  kept  in 
order,  and  rented  furnished.  It  was  a  comfortable 
looking  house,  standing  close  to  the  street,  with  a 
broad  piazza,  and  having  a  pretty  view  of  the  bay. 
It  was  very  well — but  oh  !  as  a  home,  coming  after 
the  one  she  had  grown  up  in  !  Poor  Missy  loathed  it. 
She  had  made  it  part  of  her  capable  management  of 
things  to  keep  this  house  furnished  from  the  over 
flow  of  their  own.  It  was  a  family  joke  that  this  was 
the  hospital  for  disabled  and  repaired  furniture,  the 
retreat  to  which  things  out  of  style  and  undesirable 
were  committed.  If  a  new  carpet  were  coveted  at 
home,  it  was  so  good  an  excuse  to  say  the  Roncevalle 
carpets  needed  renovating,  and  it  was  best  to  put  the 
new  ones  on  the  floors  at  home.  When  Missy's  dainty 
taste  tired  of  a  lamp  or  a  piece  of  china,  it  was  or 
dered  over  to  the  Roncevalle.  It  may  be  imagined 
with  what  feelings  she  contemplated  living  over  those 
discarded  carpets,  eating  her  dinner  off  that  con 
demned  china,  being  mistress  of  that  third-rate  house. 

But  to  do  her  justice,  this  formed  a  very  small  part 
of  her  trial.  She  was  of  a  nature  averse  to  change, 
firm  in  its  attachments.  To  give  up  her  home  would 
have  been  heart-breaking,  even  though  she  should  still 
have  had  the  companionship  of  her  mother.  But  when 
that  was  broken,  and  the  whole  face  of  her  life 
changed,  it  seemed  to  her,  indeed,  a  bitter  fate.  She 
could  see  no  righteousness  in  it,  no  excuse,  no  pallia 
tion.  She  felt  sure  that  it  was  but  the  beginning  of 
the  end,  and  that  her  mother  could  but  a  short  time 
survive  the  fanatical  sacrifice  she  had  made.  She 


THE    BROOK    IN    THE     WAY.  379 

imagined  her  in  the  reeking,  filthy  streets  of  mid 
summer,  surrounded  by  detestable  noises  and  sights, 
without  the  comforts  to  which  she  was  accustomed. 

"  Nothing  prevents  my  coming  to  you,  if  I  am  ill," 
said  her  mother.  "And,  Missy,  if  I  can  live  through 
this,  I  can  endure  anything,  I  think." 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 
THE   BROOK   IN  THE   WAY. 

T  was,  indeed,  the  hardest  part,  that  first  step, 
to  all,  but  it  was  accomplished,  somehow. 
The  early  spring  found  Mrs.  Varian  in  her 
new  home,  St.  John  established  in  his  work, 
Missy  and  Miss  Varian  settled  in  the  Roncevalle  house, 
and  the  dear  home  shut  up.  It  was  in  the  market,  to 
be  sold  if  any  one  would  buy,  to  be  rented  if  nobody 
would.  They  had  gone  out  of  it,  taking  little,  and  it 
was  in  perfect  order. 

About  this  time  Missy  broke  down,  and  had  the 
first  illness  of  her  life.  St.  John  came  Tip  to  her,  and 
brought  one  of  the  newly-imported  Sisters  to  nurse  her. 
She  would  have  rebelled  against  this,  if  she  had  been 
in  condition  to  rebel.  She  was  not,  however,  and  could 
only  submit. 

What  is  the  use  of  going  through  her  illness?  We 
have  most  of  us  been  ill,  and  know  the  dark  rooms  we 
are  led  through,  and  the  hopelessness,  and  helpless 
ness,  and  weariness  ;  the  foreign  land  we  seem  to  be  in, 


380  THE    BROOK    IN     THE     WAT. 

with  well  people  stealing  on  tip-toe  out  of  our  sight  to 
eat  their  comfortable  dinners,  with  kind  attendants 
reading  the  morning  paper  behind  the  window  cur 
tains,  with  faithful  affection  smothering  yawns  through 
our  tossing,  sleepless  nights.  Yes,  everybody  is  well, 
and  we  are  sick.  Everybody  is  in  life,  and  we  are  in 
some  strange,  half-way  place,  that  is  not  life  nor  death. 
We  may  be  so  near  eternity,  and  yet  we  cannot  think 
of  it  ;  so  wretched,  so  wretched,  the  fretted  body  can 
not  turn  its  thoughts  away  from  itself.  We  are  alone 
•as  far  as  earth  goes,  and  alone,  as  far  as  any  nearness 
to  Heaven  feels.  What  is  the  good  of  it  all  ?  AVhat 
have  we  gained  (if  we  ever  get  back)  by  this  journey 
into  a  strange  land,  that  didn't  seem  to  be  joyous  but 
grievous?  Well,  a  great  many  things,  perhaps,  but 
one  thing  almost  certainly  :  Detachment.  It  isscarcely 
possible  to  love  life  and  see  good  days  with  the  same 
zest  after  this  sorrowful  journey.  It  abates  one's  relish 
for  enjoyment,  it  tempers  one's  thirst  for  present  pleas 
ures  ;  it  loosens  one's  hold  upon  things  mundane. 
That  is  the  certain  good  it  does,  and  the  uncertain, 
how  infinite  ! 

Poor  Missy  felt  like  a  penitent  child,  after  that  ill 
ness  of  hers.  She  did  not  feel  any  better,  nor  any 
surer  that  she  should  be  any  stronger  or  wiser  ;  but 
she  felt  the  certainty  that  she  had  put  a  very  wrong 
value  upon  things,  and  that  life  was  a  very  different 
matter  from  what  she  had  been  considering  it.  She 
felt  so  ashamed  of  her  self-will,  so  humbled  about  her 
own  judgment.  She  still  did  not  like  long  black  dresses 
on  men  or  women,  but  she  felt  very  much  obliged  to 
St.  John  and  the  good  Sister  for  all  the  weeks  they  had 
spent  in  taking  care  of  her.  And  although  stained 


THE    BROOK    IN    THE     WAT.  381 

glass  windows,  and  swinging  lamps,  and  church  em 
broidery  did  not  appeal  to  her  in  the  least  ;  she  began 
to  understand  how  they  might  appeal  to  people  of  a 
different  temperament.  Let  it  not  be  imagined  that 
Missy  came  out  of  this  a  lamb  of  meekness.  On  the 
contrary,  she  was  very  exacting  about  her  broth,  and 
once  cried  because  the  nurse  would  not  keep  Miss  Va- 
rian  out  of  the  room.  But  then  she  was  more  sorry 
for  it  than  she  had  been  in  the  habit  of  being,  and 
made  Miss  Yariau  a  handsome  apology  the  first  time 
she  was  well  enough  to  see  her. 

She  looked  out  of  the  window,  across  the  road,  upon 
the  trees  just  budding  into  loveliness  on  the  lawn  of 
her  dearest  home,  and  wondered  that  she  should  have 
thought  it  mattered  so  very  much  whether  she  lived  in 
this  house  or  in  that,  considering  it  was  not  going  to 
be  forever,  either  here  or  there. 

St.  John-came  and  sat  down  by  her  one  afternoon, 
as  she  lay  in  a  great  easy  chair,  looking  out  at  the 
spring  verdure  and  the  soft  declining  sunshine.  She 
had  never  got  to  talking  of  very  deep  things  to  St. 
John,  since  her  unhappy  controversy  with  him,  but  she 
felt  so  sure  that  he  would  not  talk  of  anything  that 
she  objected  to,  that  she  was  at  her  ease  with  him. 
They  talked  about  the  great  tulip  tree  on  the  lawn, 
that  they  could  just  see  from  the  window,  and  the 
aspens  by  the  gate,  just  large-leaved  enough  to  shiver 
in  the  softly-moving  breeze.  Then  Missy  forced  her 
self  to  ask  if  a  tenant  had  been  found  for  the  house, 
and  he  answered  her,  yes,  and  also,  that  he  had  heard 
that  the  Andrews'  place  was  rented  too. 

"  I'm  sorry,"  he  said,  "  that  Mr.  Andrews  has  gone 
away  from  here.  I  felt  as  if  it  were  the  sort  of  place 


882  THE    BROOK    IN    THE     WAT. 

he  might  have  been  happy  in,  and  much  respected. 
Did  you  ever  get  to  know  him  well?  I  remember 
that  you  took  a  fancy  to  the  children." 

"  I  saw  a  good  deal  of  them  last  summer,"    said 
Missy,  wearily.     How  far  off  last  summer  seemed  ! 

"  "\Yhat  a  terrible  life  !"  said  St.  John,  musingly. 
"Not  one  man  in  a  thousand  could  have  borne  what  he 
did  ;  it  was  almost  heroic,  and  yet  I  think  my  first  im 
pression  was  that  he  was  common-place." 

"  I  don't  understand,"  said  Missy,  "  tell  me." 
"  It  isn't  possible  you  don't  know  about  his  wife  ?" 
So  St.  John  told  her  something  that  she  certainly 
hadn't  known  before  about  his  wife.  St.  John  had 
learned  it  from  others ;  the  story  had  been  pretty  well 
known  in  an  English  town  where  he  had  been  the 
year  before,  and  had  come  to  him  in  ways  that  put  it 
beyond  any  doubt.  Mr.  Andrews  had  married  a  young 
woman,  of  French  extraction,  of  whom  nobody  seemed 
to  know  anything,  but  that  she  was  distractingly 
pretty.  After  three  or  four  years  she  had  proved  to  be 
the  very  worst  woman  that  could  be  imagined.  She 
had  a  lover,  who  was  the  father  of  Gabrielle  ;  she  had 
married  just  in  time  to  conceal  her  shame  from  the 
world  and  from  her  husband.  They  went  to  Europe 
after  the  little  girl's  birth,  and  in  about  two  years  Jay 
was  born.  When  he  was  a  few  months  old,  the  suspi 
cions  of  the  husband  were  aroused  by  sorre  accidental 
circumstance.  The  lover  had  followed  them,  and  had 
renewed  his  correspondence  with  her.  Some  violent 
scenes  occurred.  She  professed  penitence  and  prom 
ised  amendment.  Her  next  move  was  a  bungling  con 
spiracy  with  her  lover  to  poison  her  husband.  A  horrid 
expose  of  the  whole  thing  threatened.  It  was  with 


SANCTUARY.  383 

difficulty  suppressed,  the  man  fled,  leaving  her  to  bear 
all.  In  her  rage  and  despair  she  took  poison,  and 
barely  escaped  dying.  It  was  managed  that  the  thing 
never  came  to  trial.  Mr.  Andrews,  out  of  pity  for  the 
miserable  creature,  whose  health  was  permanently  de 
stroyed  by  her  mad  act,  resolved  not  to  abandon  her 
to  destruction.  His  love  for  his  little  son,  and  his 
compassion  for  the  poor  little  bastard  girl,  induced  him 
still  to  shelter  her,  and  to  keep  up  the  fiction  of  a  home 
for  their  sakes. 

"I  don't  think,'' said  St.  John,  "one  could  fancy  a 
finer  action.  Protecting  the  woman  who  had  attempted 
his  life,  adopting  the  child  who  had  been  palmed  off 
upon  him,  establishing  a  home  which  must  have  been 
full  of  bitterness  all  the  time.  There  are  not  many 
men  who  could  have  done  this.  It  seems  to  me  utter 
self-renunciation.  Doesn't  it  seem  so  to  you  ?" 

"  How  long  have  you  known  this  ?"  cried  Missy, 
bursting  into  tears.  "  Oh  !  St.  John,  if  you  had  only  told 
me  !  You  might  have  saved  me  from  being — so  unjust." 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

SANCTUARY. 

FEW  weeks  later,  when  St.  John  had  come 
up  again  to  see  after  her,  Missy  asked  him 
to  take  her  to  her  mother,  and  so,  in  the 
summer,  when  the  country  was  at  its  love 
liest,  and  the  city  at  its  worst,  he  came  for  her,  and 
took  her,  still  too  weak  to  travel  alone,  to  the  new  house 


384  SANCTUARY. 

of  religion  in  the  old  haunts  of  sin.  It  was  not  a 
favorable  season  certainly,  but  the  weather  fortunately 
was  rather  cool  for  July,  arid  Missy's  longing  to  see 
her  mother  was  so  great,  her  distaste  for  city  streets 
was  overshadowed. 

The  church  which  the  Order  had  bought  was  not  a 
model  of  architecture,  but  it  was  large  and  capable  of 
receiving  improvement.  The  house  adjoining  it,  which 
was  to  be  the  nucleus  of  a  Sisters'  house,  was  roomy 
and  shabby.  It  had  rather  had  pretensions  to  elegance 
in  days  very  long  past,  but  it  had  gone  through  varied 
and  not  improving  experiences,  and  was  a  pretty  forlorn 
place  when  St.  John  took  it  in  hand.  It  seemed  to 
him  so  renovated  and  advanced,  in  comparison,  that  he 
could  not  understand  his  sister's  slight  shudder  and 
look  of  repugnance  as  they  entered  the  bare  hall.  Of 
course  there  were  no  carpets,  as  became  a  Sisters' 
house,  and  the  rooms  that  Missy  saw  as  she  passed 
them  were  very  plain  indeed  as  to  furniture,  and  very 
uncheerf  ul  as  to  outlook.  Naturally,  you  cannot  have 
a  house  in  the  midst  of  the  lowest  population  of  a  large 
city,  whose  windows  would  have  a  pleasing  or  cheer 
ful  outlook. 

But  when  Missy  came  to  her  mother's  room,  it  was 
different  to  her  from  the  others,  and  not  repugnant. 
It  was  a  large  room,  of  course  plainly  furnished  ;  but 
the  color  of  the  walls,  the  few  ornaments,  the  book 
shelves,  all  proclaimed  that  St.  John  had  not  been  as 
severe  in  arranging  his  mother's  room,  as  in  ihe  treat 
ment  of  his  own.  This  house  "joined  hard  to  the 
synagogue,"  and  a  door  had  been  cut  through  on  this 
second  story,  and  a  little  gallery  built,  and  there,  at 
all  the  hours,  Mrs.  Yarian  could  go.  It  was  never 


SANCTUARY.  885 

necessary  for  her  to  leave  her  room.  What  a  center 
that  room  became  of  helpful  sympathy,  of  tender 
counsel,  of  rest  for  tired  workers  !  What  a  sanctuary 
of  peaceful  contemplation,  of  satisfied  longing,  of  ex 
alted  faith  !  It  was  the  dream  of  her  life  fulfilled  ;  the 
prayer  alike  of  her  innocence  and  penitence  answered. 
From  the  little  gallery  that  overhung  the  church, 
she  heard  her  son's  voice  in  the  grey  dawn,  as  he  cele 
brated  the  earliest  Eucharist,  and  from  that  hour, 
perhaps,  she  did  not  hear  it  again  till,  at  eight  o'clock 
in  the  evening,  he  came  to  her  room  for  a  half-hour's  re 
freshment  after  the  hard  work  of  his  day.  The  clergy 
house  was  on  the  other  side  of  the  church,  about  half  a 
block  away.  It  was  as  yet  a  very  miserable  affair, 
only  advanced  by  an  application  of  soap  and  water 
from  its  recent  office  of  mechanics'  boarding-house. 
But  St.  John  seemed  to  think  that  half-hour  in  his 
mother's  peaceful  room  made  up  for  all.  It  was  very 
self-indulgent,  but  he  always  took  a  cup  of  tea  from 
her  hands,  which  she  made  him  out  of  a  little  silver 
tea-pot  that  she  had  used  since  he  was  a  baby  a  week 
old.  And  the  cup  out  of  which  he  drank  it,  was  of 
Sevres  china,  a  part  of  the  cadeau  brought  to  the  pretty 
young  mother's  bedside  in  that  happy  week  of  solici 
tude.  This  little  service  was  almost  the  only  souvenir 
they  had  brought  of  the  past  life  now  laid  away  by 
both  of  them,  but  it  was  very  sacred  and  very  sweet, 
and  probably  not  very  sinful.  It  was  a  fact,  however, 
that  St.  John  reproached  himself  sometimes  for  the 
eagerness  with  which  he  looked  forward  to  this  little 
soidagement,  during  the  toils  of  the  day.  If  he  had 
not  felt  that  it  was  perhaps  as  dear  and  necessary  to 
his  mother,  I  am  afraid  he  would  have  given  it  up. 
17 


386  SANCTUARY. 

Missy  saw  all  this,  and  much  more,  of  their  life, 
and  wondered,  as  she  lay  on  the  lounge  that  had  been 
brought  for  her  into  her  mother's  room.  She  saw  and 
wondered,  at  the  interested  happy  lives  of  the  women 
in  long  black  dresses,  who  came  and  went,  in  their  glid 
ing,  silent  way,  in  and  out  of  her  mother's  room.  She 
could  not  help  seeing,  that  in  the  offices,  to  which  the 
inevitable  bell  was  always  calling  them,  there  was  no 
monotony,  not  so  much  weariness  as  in  the  one-day-in- 
seven  service  in  a  country  parish.  Their  poor,  their 
housekeeping,  the  interests  of  their  order,  seemed  to 
supply  all  beside  that  they  needed.  There  was  no 
denying  it,  their  faces  were  satisfied  and  happy — 
except  one  sister  who  had  dyspepsia,  and  nobody  can 
look  entirely  satisfied  and  happy  who  has  dyspepsia, 
in  the  world,  or  out  of  it. 

As  to  her  mother,  there  was  no  visible  failure  in 
health,  but  a  most  visible  increase  of  mental  power 
and  energy,  and  the  inexpressible  look  that  comes  from 
doing  work  your  heart  is  in,  from  walking  in  the  path 
for  which  your  feet  were  formed.  Patient  doing  of 
duty  against  the  grain  may  be  better  than  not  doing 
duty  at  all,  but  it  always  writes  a  weary  mark  across 
the  face.  That  mark  which  her  mother's  face  had 
borne,  ever  since  Missy  could  remember  it,  was  gone. 

Weary  no  doubt  she  often  was,  for  her  hand  and 
brain  were  rarely  idle  now;  but  it  was  the  healthy 
weariness  that  brings  the  sleep  of  the  just,  and  wipes 
out  toil  with  rest.  Neither  did  Missy  understand — 
how  could  she? — the  bliss  of  those  hours  spent  in  the 
little  gallery  that  overlooked  the  empty  and  silent 
church.  She  could  have  understood  the  thrill  that  it 
might  have  given  her,  to  see  the  crowd  that  sometimes 


VESPKRS.  387 

filled  the  church,  hanging  upon  the  Avords  of  the 
preacher,  if  that  preacher  had  been  her  son.  But,  alas 
for  Missy  !  St.  John  did  only  humble  out-of-sight 
work.  He  rarely  preached,  and  then  only  to  supply 
some  one's  place,  who  had  been  called  away  or 
hindered  by  illness.  There  were  two  or  three  priests, 
older  than  he,  who  did  the  work  that  appeared  to  the 
world,  and  who  were  above  him  in  everything,  and 
who  were  praised,  and  who  had  influence.  What  was 
St.  John,  who  had  given  all  his  money,  and  all  his 
time,  and  all  his  heart,  to  this  work?  The  lowest  one 
of  all,  of  less  authority  or  influence  or  consideration 
than  any.  Well,  if  he  was  satisfied,  no  one  need  com 
plain,  and  he  evidently  was. 


CHAPTER    XXVIII. 

VESPERS. 

ATE  one  afternoon,  during  this  visit  of  hers, 
Missy  stole  into  the  little  gallery  by  her 
self,  and  closed  the  door.  The  plaintive 
and  persistent  bell  had  shaken  out  its  sum 
mons  in  the  house.  Her  mother  slept  through  it,  over 
come  by  the  heat  and  by  some  unusual  exertion  in  the 
morning.  Missy  did  not  consider  herself  bound  to 
assist  at  all  the  offices,  but  she  rather  liked  it,  and 
crept  in  very  often  when  no  one  was  noticing,  and 
when  she  happened  to  feel  well  enough.  A  few  poor 
people  came  in  this  afternoon,  and  t\yo  or  three  Sisters. 


388  VESPERS. 

St.  John  said  the  prayers.  When  the  prayers  were 
over,  and  he  had  gone  into  the  sacristy,  Missy  still 
lingered,  leaning  her  head  on  the  rail,  and  gazing 
down  into  the  church.  St.  John  came  out,  after  a 
moment,  and  the  poor  people  came  up,  two  or  three 
of  them,  and  preferred  petitions  for  pecuniary  or  spir 
itual  aid,  principally  pecuniary. 

After  their  audiences  were  ended,  they  shambled 
away  ;  the  Sisters  had  disappeared,  and  the  church 
was  empty  but  for  one  figure,  standing  near  the  door. 
St.  John  gave  an  inquiring  look,  and  made  a  step  for 
ward.  The  lady,  for  it  was  a  lady,  seemed  to  hesitate, 
and  her  attitude  and  movements  betrayed  great  agita 
tion.  Some  late  rays  of  the  afternoon  sun  came 
piercing  down  through  a  high-up,  colored  window. 
Missy  looked  down  with  keen  interest  upon  the  two  ; 
it  was  another  scene  in  her  brother's  life. 

"You  are  too  young  for  the  care  of  penitents  like 
that,  my  dear  St.  John,"  she  said  to  herself,  senten- 
tiously.  For  the  lady  was  pretty,  more  than  pretty, 
and  young  and  graceful. 

She  came  forward  rapidly,  her  resolution  once 
made,  and  stood  before  St.  John,  half  way  down  the 
aisle.  He  did  not  look  very  young,  thanks  to  its 
being  "always  fast  and  vigil,  always  watch  and 
prayer,"  with  him  ;  his  peculiar  dress  made  him  seem 
taller  than  he  really  was,  almost  gaunt.  His  face  had 
a  sobered,  worn  look,  but  an  expression  of  great  sweet 
ness.  He  carried  his  head  a  little  forward,  and  his  eyes, 
which  were  almost  always  on  the  ground,  he  raised  with 
a  sort  of  gentle  inquiry,  an  appealing,  wondering  inter 
est,  to  the  face  before  him.  Because,  to  St.  John,  people 
were  "  souls,"  and  he  was  always  thinking  of  their  eter- 


VESPERS.  C89 

nal  state.  As  to  a  lawyer,  those  he  meets  are  possible 
clients,  and  to  a  doctor,  patients,  so  to  this  other  pro 
fessional  mind  all  were  included  in  his  hopes  of  penitence 
or  progress.  He  raised  his  eyes  to  the  new-comer's  face, 
and  Missy  saw  the  start  he  gave,  and  the  great  change 
that  took  place  in  his  expression.  It  was  as  if  he  were, 
for  a  moment,  sharply  assaulted  with  some  strong  pain. 
He  put  out  his  hand,  and  laid  hold  of  the  wooden  rail 
ing  of  a  prayer  desk  near  him,  as  if  to  steady  himself. 

The  lady,  meanwhile,  had  not  been  too  agitated  to 
notice  his  emotion.  She  eagerly  scanned  his  face, 
stretched  out  her  hand  to  him  timidly,  then  drew  it 
back  and  clasped  it  in  the  other,  and  said  something 
pleadingly  to  him,  looking  up  to  him  with  tears. 
Seeing  she  did  not  make  him  look  at  her  again,  and 
that  he  was  rapidly  gaining  self-control,  she  flushed, 
drew  back,  with  a  manner  almost  angry.  But  in  a 
moment,  some  humiliating  recollection  seemed  to 
sweep  over  her  mind  and  blot  out  her  involuntary 
pride.  Her  face  darkened,  and  her  mouth  quivered  as 
she  said,  quite  loud  enough  for  Missy,  in  her  loft,  to 
hear  : 

"  The  only  right  I  have  to  come  to  you,  is  that  the 
wretched  man  whom  you  have  befriended,  and  whom 
you  are  preparing  for  the  gallows,  is  the  man — to  whom 
I  am  married." 

St.  John  started  again,  and  said — ?  The  name 
Missy  did  not  catch.  The  stranger  assented,  and 
went  on  speaking  bitterly,  and  with  a  voice  broken  by 
agitation.  "  lie  tells  me  he  has  confessed  to  you.  I 
do  not  believe  it — I  do  not  believe  he  would  tell  the 
truth,  even  upon  the  gallows.  His  perfidy  to  my  poor 
sister,  ruining  her,  breaking  her  heart,  destroying  her 


390  VESPERS. 

chance  of  being  happy  in  a  good  marriage — to  me, 
enticing  me  away  from  you — and  then  dragging  me 
through  shame  and  suffering  that  I  cannot  even  bear  to 
think  of — his  1  w  vices — his  heartless  frauds — has  he 
told  you  all  these  ? — You  used  to  be  young.  I  should 
think  you  would  soon  be  old  enough  if  you  have  to 
hear  many  such  stories.  I  should  think  you  would  be 
tired  of  living  in  a  world  that  had  such  things  done  in 
it." 

St.  John  did  not  answer.  His  eyes  never  now  left 
the  ground.  . 

"I  am  tired  of  it,"  she  cried,  with  tears.  "I  am 
tired  and  sick  of  life.  I  want  to  die,  and  only  I  don't 
dare.  Sometimes  I  come  here  to  the  church  and  the 
music  and  the  preaching  seem  to  make  me  ashamed  of 
my  wicked  thoughts  ;  but  it  doesn't  stay,  and  I  go 
back  to  all  my  miseries  and  I  am  no  better.  I  don't 
know  what  has  kept  me  from  the  worst  kind  of  a  life. 
I  don't  know  what  keeps  me  from  the  wcrst  kind  of  a 
death.  I  have  sometimes  wondered  if  it  wasn't  that 
you  pray  for  me — among  your  enemies,  I  suppose,  if 
you  do." 

There  was  a  pause,  and  then  she  went  on  :  "  Last 
Sunday  night  I  heard  you  preach  ;  I  had  only  heard 
your  voice  reading  the  prayers  before  that.  Ever 
since,  I  have  wanted  to  speak  to  you  to  ask  you  about 
something  that  you  said." 

Then  St.  John  lifted  his  head  and  said,  in  a  voice 
that  was  notably  calm,  "  I  hope  you  will  come  here 
often,  and,  if  you  will  let  me,  I  will  ask  Father  Ellis 
to  talk  with  you  and  to  give  you  counsel.  He  has  had 
great  experience,  and  he  will  help  you." 

Missy  listened  breathless  for  the  words  that  came 


VESPERS.  391 

at  last,  after  a  succession  of  emotions  had  passed  over 
her  face.  "You  have  not  forgiven  me  !  "  she  said. 
"1.3  that  being  good  and  holy,  as  you  teach?  You 
will  not  talk  to  me  and  help  me  yourself,  but  send  me 
to  some  one  I  don't  know  and  who  won't  understand. 
Why  won't  you  forgive  me?  Heaven  knows  I  have 
been  sorry  enough  and  repented  enough  !  " 

A  lovely  smile  passed  over  St.  John's  face,  one 
would  almost  have  said  there  was  a  shade  of  amuse 
ment  in  it,  but  it  was  all  gone  in  a  moment,  and  the 
habitual  seriousness  returned. 

"I  had  never  thought  of  any  question  of  forgive 
ness,"  he  said.  "  Be  assured  of  it  in  any  case." 

"Then  why,"  she  hurried  on,  keenly  searching  his 
face,  "  why  will  you  not  let  me  speak  to  you  ?  Why 
will  you  not  teach  me,  and  help  me,  as  you  say  Father 
Ellis  would  do?" 

"  Because  it  is  not  my  part  of  the  work.  He  has 
more  experience." 

"  But  you  teach  Armand.  You  spend  hours  in  the 
prison.  You  have  the  direction  of  souls  there." 

"That  is  a  different  work,"  he  said,  simply. 

"Then, "she  exclaimed,  passionately,  "since  you 
refuse  me  I  will  go  away.  I  have  been  hoping  all  this 
time  for  help  from  you.  If  you  won't  give  it,  God 
knows,  that  is  the  end.  I  will  not  speak  to  strangers 
and  lay  open  my  miserable  past.  I  shall  not  listen  to 
my  conscience  any  more.  I  will  get  out,  of  my 
wretchedness  any  way  I  can.  I  might  have  known 
that  churches  and  priests  would  not  do  me  any  good." 

"  I  should  be  sorry,"  he  said,  calmly,  "  to  think  you 
had  come  to  such  a  resolution.  No  one  person  is  likely 
to  do  you  more  good  than  another.  If  the  intention 


392  VESPERS. 

of  your  heart  is  right,  God  can  help  you  through  one 
person  as  well  as  through  another." 

"  You  distrust  me,"  she  said.  "  I  suppose  I  ought 
not  to  wonder  at  it,  but  I  did  not  think  men  as  good  as 
you  could  be  so  hard.  Why  do  you  doubt  that  the  in 
tention  of  ray  heart  is  right  ?  " 

"  I  have  not  said  that  I  doubted  it.  I  have  only 
thought  that  if  it  were,  you  would  be  glad  to  accept 
any  means  laid  before  you,  of  getting  the  assistance 
that  you  feel  you  need." 

The  girl,  for  she  looked  only  that,  buried  her  face 
in  her  hands,  and  a  faint  sob  echoed  through  the 
empty  church.  "  It  would  be  so  much  easier  to  speak 
to  you  ;  it's  so  hard,"  she  murmured,  "  to  tell  a  stranger 
all  you've  done  wrong,  and  all  the  miserable  things 
that  have  happened  to  you." 

"You  don't  have  to  tell  him  all  that  has  happened 
to  you,"  he  said.  "  You  have  only  to  tell  him  of  your 
sins.  Let  me  add,  that  the  priest  to  whom  I  ad  vise  you 
to  go,  has  great  sympathy  with  suffering,  and  is  very 
gentle." 

Missy  hardly  breathed,  such  was  her  interest  in  the 
scene  before  her.  She  took  in  all  the  complication,  the 
shock  that  seeing  the  woman  for  whom  he  had  had 
such  strong  feeling,  had  given  St.  John,  the  sorrow  of 
finding  her  bound  to  the  miserable  criminal,  whose  last 
hours  he  was  trying  to  purify,  the  fear  of  repulsing 
her,  and  the  danger  of  ministering  to  her.  At  iirst  she 
had  been  overwhelmed  with  alarm  for  him,  the  grace 
and  beauty  of  the  young  creature  was  so  unusual,  her 
desire  to  re-establish  relations  of  intimacy  so  unmis 
takable.  But  something,  she  did  not  know  what,  re 
assured  her.  Perhaps  it  was  the  faint  gleam  of  a  smile 


VESPERS.  303 

on  "his  face,  when  she  asked  him  to  forgive  her  ;  as  if 
he  had  said,  "  You  ask  me  to  forgive  you  for  doing  me 
the  greatest  favor  you  could  possibly  have  done."  Per 
haps  it  was  that  she  felt  intuitively  the  inferiority  of 
the  woman's  nature,  that  she  knew  St.  John  had  been 
growing  away  from  her,  leaving  her  behind  with  such 
strides  that  she  could  not  touch  him.  He  was  beyond 
danger  from  silken  hair  or  peach-bloom  cheeks.  If  dan 
ger  came  to  him,  it  would  be  in  a  subtler  form.  She 
wondered  at  herself,  feeling  so  confident  ;  she  felt  very 
sorry  for  the  girl,  not  afraid  of  her.  She  looked  back 
at  the  past,  and  said  to  herself,  "  This  pink-faced,  long- 
lashed  young  thing  has  held  a  great  deal  in  her  hands, 
but  she  holds  it  no  more."  Her  sin  and  folly  turned 
more  than  one  life  into  a  new  channel.  St.  John's,  his 
mother's,  Missy's  own,  what  marks  they  bore  of  her 
flippant  treachery  !  She  tried  to  picture  to  herself  how 
they  would  have  been  living,  if,  on  that  October  night, 
so  long  ago,  St.  John  had  brought  her  home,  instead 
of  coming  alone,  with  his  ashy,  dreadful  face.  If  he 
had  married  her,  and  come  to  live  at  Yellowcoats,  per 
haps,  or  near  them.  Ah  !  perhaps  they  would  all  have 
been  in  the  dear  home.  Would  it  have  been  better  ? 
Looking  at  St.  John,  and  looking  at  her,  with  the  ap 
preciation  that  she  had  of  her  character  from  those  few 
moments — would  it  have  been  better  ?  No,  it  would 
not  have  been  better.  Bitter  as  this  change  had  been 
to  her,  Missy  knew  in  her  heart  it  would  not  have  been 
better.  She  knew  St.  John  might  well  smile  at  the 
idea  of  forgiving  her,  and  she  herself,  though  she  did 
not  smile,  could  thank  her,  as  she  had  said  she  thanked 
her,  when  she  stood  by  the  mother's  sleepless  bed  that 
night  and  heard  the  story. 
17* 


394  VESPERS. 

There  are  some  things  that  we  cannot  find  words 
for,  even  in  our  thoughts.  She  could  not  tell  why,  but 
she  knew  as  well  as  if  she  had  spelled  it  out  of  Wor 
cester  and  Webster  that  it  was  better  for  them  all  to 
be  living  this  life  and  not  the  old.  She  would  have 
fain  not  thought  so,  but  she  was  convicted.  The  scene 
passing  in  the  aisle  below  her,  a  year  ago,  would  have 
filled  her  with  alarm,  and  have  given  her  assurance 
that  her  predictions  were  to  be  fulfilled.  Now,  in 
these  bare  walls,  in  this  dim  house,  "this  life  of 
pleasure's  death,"  she  felt  how  powerless  were  such 
temptations,  how  different  the  plane  on  which  they 
Ptood.  It  was  all  to  be  felt,  not  explained.  The 
young  creature  below  her,  turning  with  a  late  devo 
tion  to  the  man  who  had  outgrown  her,  still  "  blindly 
with  her  blessedness  at  strife,"  could  not  see  or  feel 
it.  Missy  could  pity  her,  even  as  she  watched  her  al 
ternate  art  and  artlessness,  in  trying  to  arouse  in  him 
some  of  the  old  feeling.  It  was  all  in  vain. 

When  the  interview  ended,  and  she  went  away, 
Missy  watched  her  brother,  as  he  stood  for  a  while, 
with  his  eyes  fastened  on  the  ground.  Then,  with  a 
long  sigh,  he  walked  through  the  church,  adjusting  a 
bench  here,  picking  up  a  prayer  book  there,  and  then 
went  and  kneeled  down  before  the  altar.  Missy  felt 
be  was  not  praying  for  himself,  and  for  power  to  re 
sist  a  temptation,  but  for  the  soul  of  the  poor  un 
disciplined  girl,  and  the  sinful  man  to  whom  she  was 
bound. 

The  end  of  the  story  she  did  not  hear  at  once. 
Her  visit  ended  about  this  time,  and  she  only  learned 
later  from  her  mother,  that  St.  John  had  moved 
Heaven  and  earth  to  get  the  man  pardoned.  During 


VESPERS.  895 

the  time  of  suspense,  the  poor  girl  had  been  in  a 
destitute  and  deplorable  state,  but  with  enough  good 
in  her  to  listen  to  the  teaching  of  Father  Ellis  and  the 
Sisters.  In  their  house  she  had  found  shelter  ;  and 
during  several  weeks,  Mrs.  Varian  had  had  her  con 
stantly  with  her.  She  never  saw  St.  John  again,  ex 
cept  in  church.  The  pardon  was  despaired  of,  the 
sickening  days  that  were  now  growing  fewer  and  fewer, 
were  spent  by  St.  John,  mainly  with  this  man,  and  in 
the  cells  of  the  prison  where  he  lay.  The  wretched 
criminal  was  a  coward,  and  broken  down  and  abject, 
at  the  approach  of  death.  His  late  compunction 
softened  his  wife  towards  him  ;  with  one  of  the 
Sisters  she  came  often  to  the  prison. 

It  was  hailed  with  joy,  in  the  still  house,  when 
word  came,  that  at  the  last  hour  he  was  pardoned,  and 
that  his  wife  was  to  meet  him  on  board  the  vessel  that 
was  to  take  them  both  to  the  new  life,  to  which  they 
had  pledged  themselves.  Poor  Gabrielle  was  half  re 
luctant,  but  she  was  trying  to  be  good,  and  was  in 
earnest,  in  a  childish  sort  of  way.  St.  John  looked 
rather  pale  and  worn  after  that,  and  came  to  Yellow- 
coats  to  recruit  for  a  day  or  two,  or  perhaps  to  see 
after  Missy.  His  work  had  lain  principaliy  among 
"  wicked  people,"  as  he  had  proposed  to  himself  in  early 
days.  For  some  reason  he  made  himself  acceptable  to 
prisoners  and  outcasts.  It  is  possible  his  great 
humility  had  as  much  to  do  with  it,  as  his  sympathetic 
nature.  At  all  events,  he  had  had  plenty  to  do,  and 
was  quite  familiar  in  prison  cells,  and  at  work-house 
deathbeds.  When  this  man  (Armand)  had  come 
under  his  care,  he  was  under  sentence  of  death,  and 
was  probably  the  wickedest  of  all  his  wicked  people. 


396  VESPERS. 

He  was  a  foreigner,  with  a  hideous  past — how  hideous, 
it  was  likely  none  but  St.  John  knew.  He  was  con 
demned  to  suffer  the  penalty  of  the  law,  for  a  murder 
committed  in  a  bar-room  fray,  possibly  one  of  the 
lightest  of  the  sins  of  his  life.  It  was  he  who  had 
ruined  the  life  of  poor  little  Jay's  mother,  and  plotted 
the  death  of  her  husband.  He  was  a  desperado,  a 
dramatic  villain,  the  sort  of  man  respectable  people 
rarely  meet,  except  on  the  stage  or  in  police  courts. 

St.  John  had  not  suspected  the  identity  of  his  pen 
itent  with  the  man  to  whom  he  owed  it,  that  he  wore  a 
girdle  round  his  waist,  till  the  day  that  Gabrielle  came 
into  the  church.  Poor  Gabrielle  !  It  was  hard  lines  for 
her  to  be  sent  off  with  the  cowardly  villain,  but  there 
seemed  no  other  way  to  settle  the  fate  of  both  of  them, 
considering  that  they  were  married  to  each  other.  A 
lingering  pity  filled  St.  John's  heart  when  he  thought 
of  her,  and  of  the  terrible  fate  to  which  she  had  bound 
herself.  All  this  sort  of  thing  is  exhausting  to  the 
nerves,  and  no  one  could  begrudge  St.  John  his  day 
and  a  half  of  rest  by  Yellowcoats  bay.  He  and  his 
fellow-workers  took  very  few  such  days.  Their  hands 
were  quite  full  of  work,  not  of  a  sentimental  kind.  It 
takes  money  to  send  criminals  and  their  families  away 
to  lead  new  lives  in  new  lands,  and  money  does  not  al 
ways  come  for  the  wishing.  It  takes  time  and  the  ex 
penditure  of  thought  to  prepare  men  for  the  gallows, 
to  get  their  pardons  for  them  if  may  be,  to  smoothe 
their  paths,  whichever  way  they  lead  ;  it  is  good  hard 
work  to  do  these  things,  and  many  like  them,  and  takes 
the  flesh  off  men's  bones,  and  wears  out  nerves  and 
brains  almost  as  effectually  as  stocks  and  speculations. 


SURRENDER.  397 

But  there  are  men  who  choose  to  work  in  obscurity  in  a 
service  for  which  the  world  offers  them  no  wages — only 
a  very  stiff  contempt. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

SUIIRENDER. 

JTSSY  found  herself  at  home  in  the  country, 
very  sorry  to  leave  her  mother,  very  glad 
to  breathe  pure  air  again,  very  humble  to 
think  how  much  she  objected  to  bad  smells 
and  street  noises.  St.  John  and  her  mother  did  not 
seem  to  take  them  into  account  at  all,  and  the  Sisters 
she  was  sure  enjoyed  them.  Her  housekeeping  and 
Aunt  Harriot  took  up  a  good  deal  of  her  time,  but  it 
was  pretty  dull  work,  and  her  heart  was  heavy.  It  was 
something  of  a  strain  to  have  to  see  people  and  to  an 
swer  their  curious  questions  ;  but  to  tell  the  truth, 
Missy  was  much  less  ashamed  of  her  brother  and  her 
mother  since  she  came  back,  and  chiefly  felt  the  im 
possibility  of  making  anybody  understand  the  matter. 
She  understood  comparatively  little  herself,  but  the 
comfortable  rector,  "  with  fat  capon  lined,"  the  small- 
souled  doctor,  the  young  brood  of  Olors,  the  strait- 
laced  Sombreros,  the  evangelical  Eves,  how  much  less 
could  they  comprehend.  She  knew  that  the  keenest 
interest  existed  in  the  whole  community  regarding 
their  family  matters,  and  that  much  indignation  was 
felt  at  the  breaking  up  "of  the  home.  There  were  a 


398  SURRENDER. 

great  many  people  who  were  inclined  to  look  upon  her 
as  a  martyr  to'  the  fanaticism  of  her  mother  and 
brother,  and  she  would  have  been  overwhelmed  with 
civilities  if  she  had  consented  to  receive  them.  As  it 
was,  she  considered  every  unusual  demonstration  of 
regard,  as  a  disapprobation  of  her  mother,  and  resented 
it  in  her  heart,  and  possibly  showed  much  coldness  of 
manner.  So  she  gradually  isolated  herself,  and  became 
daily  less  a  part  of  the  Yellowcoats  community. 

How  odd  it  was  to  be  so  unimportant  !  Her  small 
housekeeping  required  so  few  dependents,  contrasted 
with  their  former  ways.  Now  that  they  did  not  en 
tertain,  and  that  she  was  neither  young  nor  old,  and 
that  illness  had  kept  her  from  even  the  ordinary  duties 
of  visiting,  she  had  fallen  almost  entirely  out  of  sight. 
A  very  gay  family  had  taken  their  house,  which  wa8 
now  quite  a  centre  of  amusement.  The  Andrews  cot 
tage  had  been  occupied  by  people  whose  delight  it 
was  to  be  considered  swell.  They  drove  all  sorts  of 
carts,  and  sailed  all  manner  of  boats,  and  owned  all 
varieties  of  dogs.  The  village  gazed  at  them,  and  the 
residents  who  were  entitled  to  be  considered  on  a 
visiting  equality,  called  on  them,  and  all  united  to 
gratify  their  ambition  to  be  talked  about.  At  these 
two  houses,  poor  Missy  felt  she  would  be  excused  from 
calling.  Indeed,  no  one  seemed  to  notice  the  omis 
sion  ;  it  is  so  easy  to  sink  down  into  obscurity,  and  to 
become  nobody.  She  sometimes  felt  as  if  she  had 
died,  and  had  been  permitted  to  come  back  and  see 
how  small  a  place  she  had  filled,  and  how  little  she 
was  missed,  to  perfect  her  in  humility.  After  all,  St. 
John  and  his  mother — were  they  so  very  wrong? 
What  was  it  all  worth  ? 


SURRENDER.  399 

Miss  Harriet  Vat-inn,  about  these  days,  was  much 
easier  to  get  along  with  than  in  more  prosperous  ones. 
Perhaps  she  was  touched  by  Missy's  changed  manner 
and  illness  ;  perhaps  the  insignificance  into  which 
they  had  fallen,  Imd  had  for  her,  too,  its  lesson.  And 
perhaps  the  spectacle  of  her  sister's  faith,  had,  against 
her  will,  shocked  her  into  a  study  of  her  own  selfish 
and  unlovely  life.  She  had  many  silent  hours  now,  in 
which  she  did  not  call  for  Balzac  and  diversion  ;  she 
submitted  to  hear  books  which  she  had  always  refused 
to  listen  to.  She  was  less  querulous  with  those  around 
her,  less  sharp-tongued  about  her  neighbors.  She  said 
nothing  about  St.  John  and  his  mother,  only  listened 
silently  to  the  news  that  came  of  them  weekly  to 
Missy.  Missy  and  she  understood  each  other  pretty 
well  now  ;  their  trouble  had  drawn  them  together. 
In  talking,  they  knew  what  to  avoid,  and  each  consid 
ered  the  other's  feelings  as  never  before.  Two  lonely 
women  in  one  house,  with  the  same  grief  to  bear,  it 
would  have  been  strange  if  they  had  not  come  together 
a  little,  to  carry  the  load. 

Goneril  had  so  much  more  to  do  nowadays,  she  was 
much  improved.  She  had  had  her  choice  of  going 
away,  or  staying  to  do  three  times  the  work  she  had 
had  to  do  in  the  other  house.  It  is  difficult  to  say 
why  she  stayed,  whether  from  a  sort  of  attachment  to 
Missy,  and  pity  for  Miss  Varian,  or  from  a  dislike  of 
rupture  and  change.  She  had  had  enough  of  it  her 
self  to  know  real  trouble  when  she  saw  it,  and  she 
certainly  saw  it  in  the  two  women  whom  she  elected 
to  serve.  Her  wrath  had  boiled  over  vehemently  at 
first.  She  had  been  anything  but  respectful  to  her 
employer'^  form  of  faith.  But  that  was  completely 


400  SURRENDER. 

settled,  once  for  all,  and  she  now  made  no  allusion  to 
the  matter,  at  least  above  stairs.  It  is  quite  possible 
that  below  she  may  have  had  her  fling,  occasionally, 
at  "popish 'pression."  The  Sister  who  nursed  Missy 
during  her  illness,  she  had,  with  difficulty,  brought 
herself  to  be  respectful  to,  but  there  was  so  much  of 
the  real  nurse  in  the  peppery  Goneril,  that  during 
long  watches  they  had  come  to  be  almost  friends. 

The  summer  passed  slowly  away  ;  the  autumn  came, 
and  with  it,  the  flight  of  the  summer  birds  whose 
strange  gay  plumage  had  made  her  old  home  so  un 
natural  to  Missy.  The  dog-carts  and  the  beach-carts 
and  the  T-carts  had  all  been  trundled  away;  the  boat- 
houses  were  locked  up,  the  stables  emptied  ;  the  six 
months'  leases  of  the  two  houses  were  at  an  end,  and 
quiet  came  back  to  the  place. 

It  was  in  November,  a  sunny  Indian  summer  day. 
After  their  early  dinner,  Missy  went  out  to  roam,  as 
she  loved  now  to  do,  over  the  grounds  and  along  the 
beach  from  which  for  so  many  months  she  had  been 
shut  out.  The  evergreens  made  still  a  greenness  with 
their  faithful  foliage,  the  lawn  looked  like  summer.  It 
was  an  unusual  season.  There  was  a  chill  in  the  shut- 
up  rooms,  and  it  made  her  heart  too  sore  to  go  often 
in  the  house,  but  outside  she  could  wander  for  hours, 
and  feel  only  a  gentle  pang,  a  soft  patient  sorrow  for 
what  was  gone  from  her  never  to  return.  She  had 
been  walking  by  the  narrow  path  that  led  through  the 
cedars,  wondering,  now  at  the  highness  of  the  tide 
which  was  washing  up  against  the  bank,  now  at  the 
mildness  of  the  air  that  made  it  almost  impossible  to 
believe  it  was  November,  when  the  woman  who  took 
care  of  the  house  came  running  after  her.  Out  of 


SURRENDER.  401 

breath,  she  told  her  some  one  had  just  come  up  by  the 
cars,  to  look  at  the  house  ;  would  she  give  her  the 
bunch  of  keys  which  she  had  put  in  her  pocket  instead 
of  giving  them  back  to  her,  a  few  minutes  before? 

Missy  felt  a  thrill  of  anger  as  she  thought  of  some 
one  to  look  at  the  house.  This  was  indeed  her  natural 
enemy,  for  this  time  it  must  be  a  purchaser,  for  it  was 
not  yet  in  the  market  for  rent.  She  gave  the  woman 
the  keys,  and  then  walked  on,  a  storm  of  envy  and 
discord  in  her  heart.  Yes,  the  one  that  should  buy  this 
house,  she  should  hate.  It  was  endurable  while  people 
only  had  it  on  lease,  and  came  and  went  and  left  it  as 
they  found  it.  But  when  it  should  be  bought  and 
paid  for,  when  trees  could  be  cut  down  and  new  paths 
cut  and  changes  made  at  the  will  of  strangers,  it  would 
be  more  than  she  could  bear.  So  few  had  come  to 
look  at  it  with  a  view  to  buying,  she  had  unconsciou>ly 
got  into  a  way  of  thinking  it  would  not  be  sold,  and 
that  this  temporary  misery  of  letting  would  go  on,  and 
she  could  yet  feel  her  hold  safe  upon  the  trees  and  the 
shrubs  and  the  familiar  rooms  and  closets.  Just  as 
they  were  now,  perhaps,  they  would  remain  for  years, 
and  she  would  have  the  care  of  them  still,  and  grow 
old  along  with  them  ;  and  some  day  the  dark  dream  of 
alienation  would  dissolve  and  she  would  come  back 
and  die  in  her  own  room. 

She  had  not  known  how  this  plan  and  this  hope 
had  taken  possession  of  her,  till  the  woman's  onl-of- 
breath  story,  of  a  stranger  from  the  train,  revealed  it 
to  her.  Some  one  coming  up  from  town  at  this  sea 
son,  meant  business.  Yes,  the  place  was  as  good  as 
sold  :  or,  if  this  man  didn't  buy  it,  others  would  be 
coming  to  look  at  it  ;  some  one  would  buy  it.  At  any 


403  SURRENDER. 

rate  her  peace  was  gone.  She  had  not  known  how  in 
sensibly  she  had  depended  upon  escaping  what  she  had 
declared  to  herself  she  was  prepared  for.  People  said 
they  were  asking  more  for  the  place  than  they  would 
ever  get.  Perhaps  St.  John  had  gone  to  the  agents 
anil  put  it  at  a  lower  figure  ;  perhaps  the  Order  needed 
the  money  and  couldn't  wait.  A  bitterer  feeling  than 
she  had  known  for  a  long  time,  came  with  these  re 
flections.  She  walked  on  fast,  away  from  all  sight 
and  hearing  of  the  unwelcome  intruders.  She  fancied 
how  they  were  poking  about  the  plumbing,  and  throw 
ing  open  the  blinds  to  see  the  condition  of  the  paint 
and  plaster,  and  standing  on  the  lawn,  with  their  backs 
to  the  bay,  and  gazing  up  at  tin;  house,  and  saying  that 
chimney  must  come  down,  and  a  new  window  could  be 
thrown  out  there,  and  the  summer  parlor  must  have 
something  better  by  way  of  an  entrance.  She  hated 
them  ;  she  would  not  put  herself  in  the  way  of  meet 
ing  them.  She  walked  on  and  on,  along  the  bank,  till 
she  was  tired,  and  then  sat  down  on  an  uprooted 
cedar,  and  pulled  the  cape  of  her  coat  over  her  head 
to  keep  warm,  and  waited  till  she  should  be  sure  they 
had  gone  back  to  the  train.  She  sat  with  her  watch 
in  her  hand,  not  able  to  think  of  the  beauty  of  the 
smooth,  blue  bay,  spread  below  her,  nor  the  calm 
of  the  still  autumn  atmosphere.  Nothing  was  calm 
to  her  now  ;  she  found  she  had  been  quite  self-de 
ceived,  and  was  not  half  as  resigned  and  good  as  she 
bad  thought  herself. 

"  I  wish  it  were  all  over  and  done,"  she  said  to  her 
self,  keeping  back  bitter  tears.  "  I  wish  the  deed  were 
signed,  and  the  place  gone.  It  is  this  suspense 
that  I  can't  bear.  Every  time  the  train  comes  in,  I 


SURRENDER.  403 

shall  think  someone  has  come  up  to  look  at  it.  Every 
time  I  walk  across  the  grounds,  I  shall  dread  that 
woman  running  after  me,  to  ask  me  for  the  keys.  Oh, 
the  talking,  and  the  lawyers,  and  the  agents,  and  St. 
John  coining  up  ;  one  day  it  will  be  sold,  and  the 
next  day  there  will  be  some  hitch,  and  there  will  be 
backing  and  filling,  and  worrying,  and  fretting,  that 
wears  my  life  out  to  look  ahead  to." 

Poor  Missy,  she  certainly  had  had  some  discipline, 
and  not  the  least  painful  part  was  that  she  did  not  find 
herself  as  good  as  she  had  thought  she  was. 

At  last  she  heard  the  whistle  of  the  cars,  faint  and 
far  off,  to  be  sure,  but  distinct  through  the  still 
autumn  air,  and  she  got  up,  and  walked  back.  She 
went  quickly,  feeling  a  little  chilled  from  sitting  still 
so  long,  and,  full  of  her  painful  thoughts,  did  not  look 
much  about  her,  till,  having  emerged  from  the  cedars, 
and  standing  upon  the  lawn,  she  looked  up,  and  sud 
denly  became  aware  that  the  intruders  had  not  gone 
away.  A  horse  and  wagon  stood  before  the  side  en 
trance,  the  horse  was  blanketed  and  tied.  She  looked 
anxiously  around,  and  saw  at  the  beach  gate,  a  gentle 
man  standing,  his  hands  in  the  pockets  of  his  ulster, 
and  his  face  towards  the  bay.  He  was  not  at  all  in  the 
attitude  of  criticism  that  she  had  fancied,  but  seemed 
quite  unconscious  of  the  chimneys  and  the  entrances. 
His  face  she  could  not  see,  and  she  hoped  to  escape  his 
notice,  by  hurrying  across  the  lawn  before  he  turned 
around.  -But  even  her  light  step  on  the  dry  leaves 
broke  his  revery,  which  could  not  have  been  very 
deep,  and  he  turned  quickly  about,  and  came  towards 
her,  as  if  he  had  been  waiting  for  her.  She  uttered 
a  quick  cry  as  she  recognized  him,  and  when  he  stood 


404  SURRENDER. 

beside  her  and  offered  her  his  hand,  she  was  so  agitated 

'  ~ 

tliat  she  could  not  speak.  She  struggled  hard  to  over 
come  this,  and  managed  to  say  at  last: 

"  I  did  not  know — I  wasn't  prepared  for  seeing 
anybody  but  a  stranger.  I  thought  it  was  somebody 
to  look  at  the  house — " 

"The  woman  told  me  you  would  soon  be  back — " 

"And  I — I  can't  help  feeling,"  stammered  poor 
Missy,  feeling  her  agitation  must  be  accounted  for  in 
some  way,  "  that  people  that  come  to  look  at  the  house 
are  my  enemies.  I'm — I'm  very  glad  to  see  you." 

"  Even  if  I  have  come  to  look  at  the  house  ?  " 

"  O  yes,  that  wouldn't  make  any  difference  in  my 
being  glad." 

"  Well,  I  have  come  a  great  many  thousands  of 
miles  to  look  at  it.  If  I  hadn't  heard  it  was  for  sale, 
I  suppose  I  should  be  somewhere  about  the  second 
cataract  of  the  Nile  to-day." 

"How  did  you  hear  about  it? "said  Missy,  not 
knowing  exactly  what  she  said  ;  but  there  are  a  great 
many  times  when  it  doesn't  make  much  difference 
what  you  say,  and  this  was  one  of  those  times.  Mr. 
Andrews  would  have  been  a  dull  man  if  he  hadn't  felt 
pretty  confident  just  then. 

"I  saw  it  in  a  newspaper,  Miss  Rothermel,  and  I 
felt  that  that  announcement  must  mean  some  trouble 
to  your  family.  I  hoped  it  was  money  trouble,  and 
that  I  might  be  able — might  be  permitted  to  do  some 
thing  to  put  things  right." 

"  No,"  said  Missy,  with  a  sudden  rash  of  tears  to 
her  eyes,  "  no,  it  isn't  money  trouble.  Nobody  can 
help  us.  ' 

"  I  know  absolutely  nothing,"  said   Mr.  Andrews, 


SURRENDER.  405 

hesitatingly.  "  I  only  landed  last  night  from  the 
steamer.  I  have  seen  no  one  to-day.  I  have  only 
heard  from  the  woman  here  that  everybody  was  well — 
that  there  had  been  no  death  to  break  your  home  up, 
and  I  couldn't  understand.  Don't  tell  me  if  you  don't 
want  to.  I  hadn't  any  right  to  ask." 

Missy  was  crying  now,  in  earnest,  as  they  walked 
up  the  path,  and  Mr.  Andrews  looked  dreadfully  dis 
tressed. 

"  O  no,"  she  said,  through  her  tears,  "  it's  a  com 
fort  to  find  anybody  that  doesn't  know.  Everybody 
here  knows  so  horridly  well  !  I  never  talk  to  anybody. 
I  haven't  said  a  word  about  it  to  anyone  for  months 
and  months.  It's  a  comfort  to  talk  to  you  about  it — if 
I  ever  can — only  I've  got  crying  and  I  can't  stop." 

She  sat  down  on  the  steps  of  the  summer  parlor, 
where  it  was  sheltered  and  where  the  afternoon  sun 
was  still  shining.  Mr.  Andrews  sat  down  silently  be 
side  her,  and  after  a  few  more  struggles  with  her  tears 
he  took  her  hands  away  from  her  face  and  began  to 
tell  him  the  story  of  the  past  year.  Her  eyes  were  a 
trifle  red,  and  her  skin  mottled  with  her  strong 
emotion  ;  but  I  don't  think  Mr.  Andrews  minded. 

"Mamma  has  gone  away  from  me,"  she  said,  "to 
be  with  St.  John  and  help  him  in  his  work.  She  has 
founded  a  sort  of  religious  house,  of  which  she  isn't  to 
be  all  the  head,  or  anything  like  that,  I  believe  ;  but  a 
Sisterhood  are  there,  of  which  she  is  an  associate, 
and  she  sees  St.  John  every  day,  and  the  room  in 
which  she  lives  opens  into  the  church  that  St.  John 
gave  the  money  to  buy — and  they  do  a  great  and 
beautiful  work  among  poor  people  and  they  are  very 
happy. 


406  SURRENDER. 

"  It  didn't  kill  mamma  as  I  thought  it  would,  slie  is 

O 

better  than  she  was  at  home.  Everybody  here  blames 
her,  and  that  is  why  I  can't  talk  to  any  of  them.  But 
you  mustn't  blame  her.  Hard  as  it  lias  been  to  me,  I 
begin  to  see  it  was  not  wrong  for  her  to  do  it.  If  I 
had  been  good  I  should  have  done  it  too  ;  but  I  wasn't, 
and  I  had  to  suffer  for  it.  O,  if  I  could  only  be  like 
her  and  like  St.  John  !  I  don't  see  how  I  came  to  be  so 
different.  At  first  I  hated  St.  John,  and  I  blamed  her, 
but  now  I  know  in  my  heart  they  are  all  right,  and  I 
am  all  wrong.  I  can't  understand  it  or  explain  it.  I 
only  know  the  truth — that  people  that  can  do  what 
they've  done  are — are  God's  own.  If  I  lived  a  hundred 
years,  I  couldn't  be  like  them,  nor  be  satisfied  with 
what  satisfies  them.  I  couldn't  ever  be  anything  but 
very  poor  and  very  common-place,  but  oh,  I  mean  to  be 
better  than  I  used  to  be — a  year  ago.  O,  I  can't  bear 
to  think  of  it.  But  there  is  no  use  in  talking  of  what's 

O 

past.  It  was  right  that  I  should  have  to  go  through 
what  I've  gone  through,  butch,  it  was  very  hard.  And 
I  have  been  so  ill,  and  everything  is  so  changed  in  my 
life.  You  can't  think  how  like  a  dream  it  all  seems  to 
me,  when  I  look  back.  This  place  has  been  let  all 
summer  to  strangers,  and  your  place  too,  and  we  are 
living  in  the  old  Roncevalle  house,  Aunt  Harriet  and 
I.  And  somehow  or  another  I  have  got  further  and 
further  off  from  all  our  friends  here.  I  know  they 
blame  mamma  and  they  pity  me,  and  I  don't  like  either 
one  or  the  other  thing,  and  I  haven't  any  friend  or 
any  one  to  talk  to,  and  it  has  been  loneliness  such  as 
you  can't  understand.  But  I  had  got  used  to  things 
in  a  certain  sort  as  they  are,  and  I  had  been  promis 
ing  myself  that  nobody  would  buy  the  house,  and 


SURRENDER.  407 

that  I  could  still  have  it  to  myself  for  a  part  of  the 
year,  and  could  still  think  of  it  as  our  own, 
and  was  quiet  and  almost  contented,  when  the 
woman  came  running  after  me  this  afternoon  and  told 
me  some  one  had  come  to  look  at  it,  and  I  was  almost 
as  unhappy  as  at  first.  I  have  been  crying  down  on 
the  bank  there  by  myself  all  the  afternoon.  So  you 
must  excuse  me  for  being  so  upset.  I  have  gone 
through  so  much  for  the  last  year,  being  ill  and  all — a 
little  thing  unnerves  me.'" 

For  Missy  was  beginning  to  feel  a  little  frightened 
at  her  own  emotion,  and  at  the  silence  of  her  companion. 

"  It  wasn't  a  little  thing,"  he  said  at  last,  "seeing 
me  and  knowing  wiiat  had  brought  me  back.  I  don't 
think  you  need  be  ashamed  to  be  showing  agitation. 
For  you  ought  never  to  have  let  rne  go  away,  Miss 
Rothermel,  don't  you  see  it  now?  My  being  here 
might  have  saved  you,  I  don't  say  everything,  but  a 
great  deal.  I  cannot  understand  why  you  sent  me  away. 
For  I  thought  then,  and  I  think  now,  that  you  relied 
on  me  in  a  certain  way — that  you  had  a  certain  feeling 
for  me.  I  should  think  you  would  not  have  repulsed  me." 

"  Those  horrid  women,"  said  Missy  faintly,  turning 
very  red. 

"  I  am  sure  I  am  very  sorry  about  them.  I  couldn't 
help  it.  I  was  stupid,  I  suppose." 

"  I  hope  they  didn't  come  back  with  you?"  said 
Missy,  with  sudden  uneasiness. 

"  O  no,  they  are  safe  in  Florence." 

"And  you  haven't  married  them?"  she  asked,  with 
a  look  of  relief.  It  made  her  jealous  even  to  think  of 
their  existence. 

Mr.  Andrews  looked  at  her  as  if  he  were  beginning 


408  SURRENDER. 

to  understand  her,  and,  half  amused  and  half  sad,  he 
said  :  "  No,  neither  one  nor  both.  And  there  is  no  dan 
ger  and  never  was  of  my  wanting  to,  because  for  a  year 
and  a  half,  and  may  be  more,  I  have  wanted  very 
much  to  marry  some  one  else." 

"  Oh,  that  reminds  me,"  said  Missy,  turning  rather 
pale,  as  if  what  she  was  about  to  say  cost  her  an  ef 
fort.  "That  reminds  me  of  something  I  ought  to  say 
to  you.  I  heard,  last  spring,  of  a  thing  about  you  that 
I  didn't  know  before.  If  I  had  known  it  I  should  have 
felt  very  differently  about — about  you  generally — Oh  ! 
— why  do  you  make  it  so  hard  to  say  things  to  you — I 
won't  say  it." 

For  Mr.  Andrews  was  quietly,  attentively,  and  per 
haps,  critically,  listening.  He  certainly  did  make  it 
hard  to  say  things.  He  naturally  showed  so  little  emo 
tion,  and  said  such  tremendous  things  himself,  in  such 
a  calm  way,  Missy  found  it  very  difficult  to  believe 
them,  and  very  hard  to  make  statements  of  an  agitating 
nature  to  him. 

"  I  don't  know  why  you  won't  say  it,"  he  said. 
"  Do  you  think  you  shall  be  sorry  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  I  generally  am,  whatever  I  do," 
she  cried,  with  some  more  tears.  "  But  no  matter.  I 
suppose  you  do  feel  things,  though  you  have  such  a 
cold-blooded  way  of  looking.  Well,  I  didn't  know  till 
a  few  months  ago  about — about  your  wife.  And  lean 
only  say,  I  had  liked  you  so  much  in  spite  of  believing 
you  were  not  kind  and  generous  to  her — and — and — if 
I  had  known  you  had  been  nobler  and  better  than  any 
other  man  in  the  world  has  ever  been — " 

Mr.  Andrews  got  up  and  walked  a  few  times  up  and 
down  the  path  before  the  steps,  which  was  the  only  in- 


SURRENDER.  409 

dication  that  he  gave  of  not  being  cold-blooded  when 
that  deep  wound  was  touched. 

"  I  trusted  to  your  being  just  to  me  when  you 
knew  the  truth,"  he  said,  at  last. 

"  I  wonder  you  didn't  hate  me,"  she  exclaimed. 

«  Well,  I  didn't,"  he  said. 

"  You  have  so  little  egotism,"  she  went  on.  "  I 
suppose  it's  that  makes  you  able  to  bear  injustice. 
You  were  so  patient  and  overlooked  so  much,  and  I 
was — so  horrid.1' 

"  I  had  been  deceived  so  before,"  he  said,  "  per 
haps  I  was  more  pleased  with  your  honesty  than 
offended  by  it.  I  was  conscious  of  not  deserving 
your  contempt,  and  I  felt  so  certain  of  your  truth.  I 
was  a  little  pleased,  too,  with  your  liking  me  in  spite 
of  yourself.  You  seel  knew  you  liked  me,  'horrid' 
as  you  were  to  me." 

"  Then  why  did  you  go  away,  if  you  knew  I  liked 
you?"  cried  Missy,  looking  up  at  him  with  fire. 

"  Because,  at  last,  I  got  tired  of  being  snubbed,"  he 
said.  "  I  believe  I  had  got  to  the  end  of  that  patience 
you  are  pleased  to  give  me  credit  for.  I  thought 
I'd  go  away  awhile  and  let  you  see  how  you  liked  it." 

"And  you  went  away  and  meant  to  come  back?" 
exclaimed  Missy,  beginning  to  cry  again,  "  and  left  me 
to  this  dreadful  year  of  misery.  I  never  will  forgive 
you — I  might  have  died.  I  only  wonder  that  I  didn't." 

"  I  didn't  suppose  you  cared  enough  to  die  about 
it,  but  I  thought  you'd  see  you  did  care  M'hen  you 
thought  it  was  too  late.  I  don't  know  much  about 
women,  but  I  know  that  sort  of  thing  occurs.  And  I 
didn't  mean  to  come  back  as  soon  as  this,  either.  It 
was  only  seeing  the  place  advertised  frightened  me  a 
18 


410  SURRENDER. 

little  and  made  me  think  you  might  be  going  through 
some  trouble.  Do  you  know,  I  didn't  believe,  up  to 
the  very  last  day,  that  you  would  let  me  go?  I  have 
never  been  angry  with  you,  but  I  own  I  was  very  sore 
and  disappointed  when  I  found  you  had  gone  out  that 
afternoon,  when  I  sent  word  by  Jay,  that  I  was  coming 
in  to  say  good-bye.  And  yet  it  looked  so  like  pique, 
I  half  thought  you  would  send  me  some  sort  of  mes 
sage  in  the  evening. 

Missy  hung  her  head  as  she  remembered  that  half 
hour  in  the  darkness  at  the  gate,  but  she  did  not  tell 
him,  either  then  or  after,  how  nearly  right  he  was 
about  it. 

"  Jay  did  not  tell  me.  Of  course  you  might  have 
known  that.  And — those  horrid  women — said  you 
were  going  to  take  them  for  a  drive  at  half  past  three 
o'clock." 

"They  did?  Well,  I  think  you're  right  about 
them — they  are  very  '  horrid.'  There  is  one  thing  I 
don't  quite  understand  ;  what  has  possessed  the  younger 
one,  at  least,  to  entertain  this  sort  of  plan.  She  has 
had  more  than  one  offer  since  we've  been  abroad,  that 
I  know  about.  But  I  believe  she  has  set  her  heart  on 
being  Jay's  mamma." 

"  It  seems  to  me,"  said  Missy,  firing  up,  "  that  you 
have  gained  in  self-esteem  since  you  have  been  away. 
So  many  young  women  want  to  marry  you  !" 

"  Only  two,  that  I  can  feel  absolutely  certain  of," 
he  said,  sitting  down  beside  her  again,  and  giving  her 
a  most  confident,  unembarrassed  look. 

"  I  don't  like  you  when  you  talk  that  way,"  she 
said,  flushing,  and  pulling  her  cloak  around  her  as  if 
she  were  going  away. 


SURRENDER.  411 

"  Why,  haven't  I  eaten  humble  pie  long  enough  ? 
Sit  still,  Missy,  don't  go  away  yet.  I  have  a  great 
deal  more  to  say  to  you." 

"I  don't  like  to  be  called  Missy  ;  it  isn't  my  name, 
to  begin  with,  only  a  disrespectful  soubriquet,  and  I 
haven't  given  you  any  right  to  speak  to  me  in  the  way 
you  do,"  said  Missy,  palpitating,  as  she  tried  to  rise. 

"  Yes,  you  have,  you,  have  said  two  things  that 
committed  you,  besides  all  the  emotion  you  showed 
when  you  saw  rne.  You  can't  require  me  to  misun 
derstand  all  that." 

"  I  don't  require  you  to  do  anything  but  let  me  go 
away.  I — the  sun  is  setting.  It  is  chilly.  I  want  to  go." 

"  ITow  do  I  know  that  you  will  let  me  go  with  you  ? 
It  suits  me  well  enough  here.  I  want  to  talk  to  you. 
It  is  more  than  a  year  since  I  have  had  that  pleasure. 
You  haven't  even  told  me  if  I  can  have  the  house. 
You  used  to  be  a  very  clever  business  woman,  I  re 
member.  Are  you  going  to  make  a  sharp  bargain 
with  me?" 

"  I  don't  care  about  the  house  ;  but  I've  told  you 
this  doesn't  please  me  in  the  least." 

Then  Mr.  Andrews  laughed  a  little.  "Well,  if 
you  push  me  to  it,  I  shall  have  to  buy  the  house,  and 
bring  Flora  here  as  mistress  of  it.  I  know  you 
wouldn't  like  her  as  a  neighbor,  but  I  can't  keep  house 
alone — that  was  demonstrated  long  ago. 

"Mr.  Andrews,  I — I  wish  you  would  let  me  go.  I 
am  tired  and  I  don't  understand  why  you  talk  to  me 
in  this  familiar  and  uncomfortable  way." 

"  I  won't  let  you  go  from  these  steps,  where  the 
sun  is  still  shining  and  where  you  won't  get  cold,  till 
you  surrender  unconditionally  ;  till  you  tell  me  that 


412  SURRENDER. 

you  love  me,  love, — remember,  like  is  not  the  word  at 
all, — and  that  you  have  loved  me  for  a  year  or  more  ; 
and  that  you  will  marry  me,  and  make  me  happy,  and 
pay  me  for  the  misery  you  have  made  me  suffer." 

Surrender  was  not  easy  to  a  young  woman  who 
had  had  her  own  way  so  long — hut  once  accomplished, 
she  was  very  well  contented  with  her  conqueror,  and 
forgot  to  resent  his  confidence  in  her  affection.  She 
forgot  that  the  sun  was  going  down  so  fast,  and  that 
there  was  danger  of  getting  cold  by  staying  out  so 
late.  It  was  twilight  when  they  went  up  the  steps  of 
the  Roncevalle  house. 

"  What  shall  I  say  to  Aunt  Harriet  ?"  she  asked, 
rather  uneasily,  feeling  it  was  odd  that  this  one  of  the 
family  should  be  the  first  one  told  of  her  mighty 
secret. 

"  I  should  say  yon VI  better  tell  her,  and  get  the 
credit  of  it,"  he  returned,  "  for  she  certainly  will 
guess." 

"  Why  ?  I  could  tell  her  you  had  come  to  buy  the 
house." 

"  But  you  look  so  happy.  What  would  you  tell 
her  to  explain  that?" 

It  is  in  this  way  that  some  long-suffering  men 
avenge  their  wrongs  of  years. 


THE   BSD. 


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Hammer  and  Rapier. Do 

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Lulu.  Do 

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Stormcliff.  Do  

Do 

Do 

Seen  a:-.d  Unseen 

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H:art  Hungry-M.J.Westmoreland 

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John  Maribel.  Do 

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Manfred — Guerra/zi 


CHARLES   DICKENS'   WORKS. 

A  NEW        UTJ£>        EDITION. 


Among  the  many  editions  of  the  works  of  this  greatest  of 
English  Novelists,  there  has  not  been  until  now  one  that  entirely 
satisfies  the  public  demand. — Without  exception,  the}''  each  have 
some  strong  distinctive  objection, — either  the  form  and  dimen 
sions  of  the  volumes  are  unhandy —  or,  the  type  is  small  and 
indistinct — or,  the  illustrations  are  unsatisfactory — or,  the  bind 
ing  is  poor— or,  the  price  is  too  high. 

An  entirely  new  edition  is  now,  however,  published  by  G.  W. 
Carleton  &  Co.,  of  New  York,  which,  in  every  respect,  com 
pletely  satisfies  the  popular  demand. — It  is  known  as 

"Carletoii's  New  Illustrated  Edition." 

COMPLETE  IN  15  VOLUMES. 

The  size  and  form  is  most  convenient  for  holding, — the  type  is 
entirely  new,  and  of  a  clear  and  open  character  that  has  received 
the  approval  of  the  reading  community  in  other  works. 

The  illustrations  are  by  the  original  artists  chosen  by  Charles 
Dickens  himself — and  the  paper,  printing,  and  binding  are  of  an 
attractive  and  substantial  character. 

This  beautiful  new  edition  is  complete  in  15  volumes — at  the 
extremely  reasonable  price  of  $1.50  per  volume,  as  follows '. — 

I. — PICKWICK    PAPERS   AND    CATALOGUE. 

2. — OLIVER    TWIST. — UNCOMMERCIAL   TRAVELLER. 

3. — DAVID    COPPERFIELD. 

4. — GREAT   EXPECTATIONS. — ITALY  AND   AMERICA. 

5- — DOMIiEY   AND    SON. 

6. — BARNABY    RUDGE   AND   EDWIN   DROOD. 

7. — NICHOLAS    NICKLEBY. 

8. — CURIOSITY   SHOP  AND   MISCELLANEOUS. 

9. — BLEAK    HOUSE. 
10. — LITTLE   DORRIT. 

II. MARTIN    CHUZZLEWIT. 

12. — OUR   MUTUAL   FRIEND. 

13. — CHRISTMAS    BOOKS. — TALE   OF  TWO   CITIES. 
14. — SKETCHES    I!Y    BO'Z   AND    HARD    TIMES. 
15. — CHIID'S    ENGLAND    AND    MISCELLANEOUS. 

The  first  volume — Pickwick  Papers — contains  an  alphabetical 
catalogue  of  all  of  Charles  Dickens'  writings,  with  their  exact 
positions  in  the  volumes. 

This  edition  is  sold  by  Booksellers,  everywhere — and  single 
specimen  copies  will  be  forwarded  by  n\a.i\,  postage  free,  on  re 
ceipt  of  price,  $1.50,  by 

0.  W.  CARLETON  &  CO.,  Publishers, 

Madison  Square,  New  York. 


A  VALUABLE  NEW  BOOK 

That  should  be  on  every  Scholar's  Table. 

CARLETON'S    HAND-BOOK 

POPULAR   QUOTATIONS. 

A  book  of  Ready  Reference  for  such  phrases,  extracts 
and  Familiar  Quotations  from  popular  authors,  as  are 
oftenest  met  with  in  general  literature ;  together  with 
their  authorship  and  position  in  the  original.  Embracing, 
also,  the  best  list  of  quotations  from  foreign  languages 
ever  published.  Elegantly  printed  and  bound.  Price, $1.50. 


If  you  want  to  find  any  Familiar  Quotation,  appropriate  to  any 
particular  Subject  or  Sentiment — this  book  will  give  it  to  you. 

If  you  want  to  know  who  is  the  author,  and  where  any  particular 
Familiar  Quotation  comes  from — this  book  will  tell  you. 

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If  you  want  to  know  the  exact  meaning  and  correctness  of  any 
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If  you  simply  want  a  delightful  book  to  have  lying  upon  your 
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Publishers,  Madison  Square,  New  York. 


